


The Hiatus Continuations

by copperbadge



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 98,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude is keeping a secret, Claire is discovering New York, Peter's just trying to keep his shit together, Hiro and Ando are dabbling in politics, and a young man with a talent for finding things has a Nissan Versa to deliver...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a version of how Heroes S1 might have ended, written during the S1 hiatus which began after episode 1.18 (and not canon-compliant with anything beyond that). 
> 
> Utilityknife has done some absolutely gorgeous artwork for my Isaac entries. if you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com. 
> 
> Warnings for depictions of drug use and suicide. 
> 
> Major character deaths are listed at the end note.

CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC

One of his other students, years before Petrelli came along, asked Claude why he was such a shallow, petty thief. He could walk into a bank and steal millions, she said, enough to keep him fat and happy on a tropical island for the rest of his life. Why steal gloves from yuppies on the subway?

"I don't want to be fat and happy," he'd answered. "You get complacent, your teeth get dull, your claws fall off. I need my teeth and claws."

"Why?" she'd asked. 

That was really the moment she'd failed, and if he'd been paying attention he'd have known it. He could have let her alone, told her that her powers weren't that important, sent her off before she committed to something she hadn't the brains to follow through on. If he'd noticed at that moment, there would have been no need to put her to the test, the sort of test he'd been putting Petrelli to when he threw him off the roof. Well, what was done was done -- she'd died, he hadn't. 

Claude didn't tell his student why, but if he had been able to -- if he'd been able to voice that fear -- he would have said that he needed his teeth and claws for this moment. He'd known it would come sooner or later. 

The moment when the Company would pick up his trail again. 

His first instinct was to go to a bar and drink himself unconscious, but that was a bad one. Instead, he went to the busiest part of the city and started picking pockets, stockpiling cash. He selected a man who looked reasonably like him and took his driver's licence too. There were many places an invisible man could go without needing to present identification, but it never hurt to have a backup plan. 

The problem with making the moral decision, seven years ago, was that now he had a few more moral decisions to make before he left town. He couldn't just bunk. He had responsibilities. Otherwise that sacrifice, losing not only his comfortable life but his friends and his partner, all that was pointless.

First and foremost were the pigeons. Bennett knew him well enough to put up pickets around the building in case he came back for them, and Bennett was just enough of a bastard to let them starve in their cages. Claude was too, if it came to a choice between him and a bunch of birds, but the pigeons were also important -- they weren't the extensive laboratories that the Company kept, but in their own humble way they were his experiment, his method of groping towards understanding in the darkness. Besides, they'd never hurt anyone.

He watched the building for nearly a day, keeping well back, staying among other people so that he wouldn't draw attention. There was a man posted on the roof, one near every door, and two on the fire escape. All of them had those blasted thermographic goggles. 

Claude circled around to the blind face of the building, the face with no back door and no fire escape. It was a sheer thirty-story climb, and there wasn't even access to the rooftop patio from that direction, but it did have the advantage of surprise.

Slowly, with great care, Claude stepped up to the building and Disappeared. When there was no reaction from any hidden spy in the area, he concentrated and felt the same old rush as his feet lifted off the ground.

There were advantages to being an Empath. 

One was that you didn't have to tell anyone.

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

Claire sat at Peter Petrelli's kitchen table while his mother -- her grandmother -- made cocoa. 

"It was a good plan," the Haitian said to her, his hands folded calmly in front of him on the table. He was so still, disturbingly still, as if he didn't even know the meaning of the word fidget. 

Claire did. She fiddled with the edge of her shirt and crossed and re-crossed her legs nervously.

"Don't tell her that, you'll only encourage her," Claire's grandmother said. Odd to think of it that way; _my grandmother._ This strange dark-haired woman doing something complicated at the stove. 

"It showed forethought and ability," the Haitian replied. "Not enough forethought, but some."

"Which is his way of saying you should have known the first place he would go after you disappeared would be my son's apartment," her grandmother said. "So you see, he's not exactly paying you a compliment."

"How long have you known about me?" Claire asked softly.

"Since you were born. Properly speaking, a little before."

"You knew I was alive?"

Mrs. Petrelli took a pan of milk off the stove and set it on a trivet. She added two spoonfuls of dark powder from a tin box nearby and began to whisk.

"My dear, there are moment in your life when people will condescend to you for your own good. Try to identify them and be content; this is one of them. The less you know about what I know, the better for you at this point," she said. 

"Peter is my uncle," Claire said, struggling for understanding. She was oddly chagrined. She liked Peter. _Like_ liked him. And he was her uncle, and that was kind of gross, wasn't it? 

"Yes, dear." Her grandmother shook in various spices from a rack of bottles on the kitchen counter. "He _does_ keep a well-stocked kitchen. Such a relief to have tidy children."

She poured the concoction into three mugs and set them down on the table. Claire sipped one quietly. 

"You can have some cocoa and then go straight to bed. We'll decide the rest in the morning," her grandmother declared. 

Claire had the oddest sensation that when she finally did meet her biological father, she was going to understand him a _lot_ better for having met her grandmother first. 

***

CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC

He left the guard on the roof with a broken neck. Well, he knew going in he might get killed over some pigeons, it wasn't Claude's fault. He did decide not to touch the others; it wasn't as if he _enjoyed_ killing. 

With his picket disposed of, he calmly and systematically opened each cage, took out each bird, Told it to stay away, and released it. He wasn't any good as a Speaker, but pigeons didn't have much willpower to begin with. 

He locked all the roost cages behind him, just to be sure, and left the same way he'd come.

On to priority number two: Petrelli. 

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - LAS VEGAS

There was no sign of the blonde woman when Nathan returned to his hotel room. He felt numb, physically as well as mentally. When he touched the doorknob, the suitcase, the buttons on the telephone, it seemed like there was a smooth film between his fingers and the solid objects. 

He didn't know what to do with the gun. He didn't have a permit for it. Finally, he took some packing paper out of his suitcase, wrapped the gun in it, and called the concierge.

"I have a package to be delivered to Mr. Linderman," he said, his voice sounding rather distant. 

"I'll send someone up, sir," came the reply. Nathan hung up and sat patiently until there was a knock on his door. 

"He'll be expecting it. I think," he said.

"Yessir," the man said. Nathan shut the door after him. Linderman already had his answer, of course; when the choice is shoot or submit, and you don't shoot, the other guy gets the point. Still, delivering up the gun to Linderman would be nicely symbolic. 

He didn't know what to do next. Go home, he supposed. He wasn't sure what the FBI would do when their men turned up dead, but Linderman would deal with that, too. 

He picked up the telephone and stared at it. Maybe Peter had managed to find Suresh. He dialed.

"Nathan, dear," someone answered. Definitely not Peter.

"Ma?" Nathan asked. Deep below the numbness, some murky emotion -- surprise, he supposed -- began to surface. 

"Hi, sweetheart. Still in Las Vegas?"

"Yeah, I -- is Peter okay?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. He isn't here. I don't suppose you know where he might have gone?"

Nathan shook his head, then realised like an idiot that she couldn't see him. "No, Ma, I don't. I mean I do, but -- it's complicated."

"You boys can never make anything simple," she sighed. "Are you coming home soon?"

"Tomorrow -- why?"

"I have a family matter I'd like to consult you about."

Nathan rubbed his forehead. "I'm sure you know what to do."

"This concerns the whole family, even you."

"Sure. Are you staying at Peter's tonight?"

He heard his mother sigh. He knew that sigh. "I suppose I'd better."

"Call me if he shows up, willya?"

"Of course, dear. Sleep well."

"You too." Nathan hesitated. "Love you."

"Don't be silly, Nathan. Goodnight."

He hung up the phone and set it carefully on the nightstand. So this was life, then. 

Following in his father's footsteps. 

***

CLAUDE RAINS - NYC

Claude had got out of the habit of using any skills except his first and most treasured. Invisibility was enough; if you could disappear you rarely needed to Talk someone into something or fly or use telekinesis. All doors were open to you. Besides, he'd never liked self-identifying as an Empath. He was the Invisible Man, that was good enough for him. 

So it had been years since he'd tried Precogging, or he'd have known Peter was coming before he saw him that day on the sidewalk. Claude was, it had to be admitted, pants at most of the telepathic arts. Flying was fine, and he'd spent enough time playing with it to be a splendid firestarter, but his brain wasn't wired to execute delicate mental commands. Perhaps it was because he and Peter used opposite techniques; perhaps if he'd tried keeping his memories close, instead of divorcing himself from his students, he'd have an easier time of it. 

Too late. 

Still, he opened his mind and tried to listen, tried to hear what he was sure would be a psychic yelp in the wilderness. Peter was too young and inexperienced to be anything but a screamer. 

"Here, kitty kitty," he murmured, making his way slowly towards Peter's flat. There ought to be a picket there too, and if Peter had any sense at all he'd have done a runner, but perhaps Bennett didn't know where he lived yet. And surely -- 

There was a faint shriek on the edge of his senses, like a diamond cutting glass. Claude stopped and lifted his head like a dog on scent, nostrils flaring. A shriek of surprise, and yes, it sounded like Peter.

Then the shriek turned into a nuclear blast of sound, and Claude teleported out of sheer amazed shock. It was a scream of pain, one of his kind in pain -- more than simply one of his kind. Peter was his student, however new, however annoying; Peter was in trouble. Claude had a parent's immediate reaction to danger. He went to where Peter was. 

It was dark and dingy and there had been a fight; he smelled blood on the air and saw a tableau that seemed to come from a surrealist painting. A dark-skinned man was pinned to the ceiling, his agony a thin oily streak across Claude's brain. No time for that; Peter was being held against one wall by a man with a presence so dark even the numb-sensed Claude could see it. 

The man, whoever he was, was cutting Peter's head open and oh god it was like the Company surgeons all over again -- 

Claude fetched up some long, heavy thing to hand and brought it square across the man's spine, right at the most sensitive point, below the ribcage, above the hips. He jerked forward and Peter fell to the ground, bleeding like billyfuck. Claude lifted the pole (IV bag still hanging off one end) and brought it down with enough force to drive it straight through this man's head.

Except it stopped an inch short, and stayed there, quivering. Claude stared as the man rolled over and smiled up at him.

"Hi," he said, and flicked his fingers.

Claude stood his ground, but the pole didn't; it flew straight up, lodging in the plaster ceiling. The man narrowed his eyes as he stood. He cocked his head, and Claude felt himself jerk gently to the left. 

Telekinetic, then. And unused to meeting this level of resistance, clearly, but Claude didn't have time for games. Undaunted, he darted his hand out and shoved the man aside before he could react. That was the bloody thing about people with talents; they forgot they had bodies, too. 

The man tried to stop him again, even as he bent over Peter's body and picked him up. He felt sudden ice creep across his back. Literally; this man was trying to freeze him.

Oh, buggery. _Another_ one. So much for being unique in the universe.

Whoever this man was, this new Empath, he thought the ice had worked. He chuckled even as Claude was melting it from underneath. 

"Nice try. Now I just get two for the price of one...and I'm hungry," the man said, and that was when Claude straightened, swung his body around, and clubbed him in the face with Peter's legs. There was a dull crackling thud as his nose broke. 

Claude would have liked to help the other bloke at the mercy of this psycho, but sod that; three Empaths in one place at one time was asking for the kind of feedback loop that could make your head explode from the inside out. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a safe place; when he opened them, he was standing in the hall outside Peter's flat, Peter still in his arms. Before anything else, he Disappeared. Not that this would help much if there were guards...

The hallway was quiet, dark, unpeopled. Claude set Peter down on his feet, holding him up with one arm.

"You awake?" he asked. Peter nodded, putting one hand up to the straight, clean gash on his forehead. 

"You -- " he started, but Claude put a hand over his mouth.

"Don't start wi' me," he said. "Stay invisible. If someone's guardin' your flat we may have to bunk in a hurry."

They inched down the hall, slowly, blood dripping on the lino from Peter's wound. Claude didn't feel too terribly well himself, but it was better than having your brain et by some lunatic. 

When he tried the door, it opened; he leaned back as it swung on its hinges, waiting for the taser shot. Silence instead, but not an empty silence. He peered around the frame, still invisible, while Peter leaned up against the wall. He was healing already; good boy. 

On the couch that faced the doorway there was a dark figure; no goggles, just the glint of metal off his weird little charm. Claude remembered the Haitian. He remembered training the Haitian. 

"Come in, Peter," the man said. Claude blinked. "You will be safe here. Your mother is here. You are not in any danger."

Claude Appeared and crossed his arms, glaring angrily at him. 

"You fucking wanker," he said. 

The Haitian smiled slightly. "Hello, Professor," he said. "You look well, for a dead man."

***

CLAUDE RAINS AND THE HAITIAN - ODESSA, TEXAS  
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

The young black boy sat quietly on the stool in the little room, looking at Claude but not studying him. 

"He doesn't really need any lessons," said the boss, regarding the boy calmly. "Other than honing and developing his power, which I'm not sure you can teach him."

"I can try. 'Sides, boys need to know more than powers," Claude answered. "It's a bad ol' world out there. Need to know how to fight, how to get around. And he needs to know how to communicate."

The boss shrugged. "We've had others in to look at him. He doesn't seem to do too well with teachers."

"You've got nothin' to lose," Claude pointed out.

"Sure. Yell when you're done," the boss said, and he left Claude alone with the boy. 

Claude shoved his hands in his pockets and walked up to the kid, taking his measure. He sat down across from him and met his gaze. He held out his hand. The boy shook it listlessly.

"Can ya talk?" Claude asked. The boy continued to stare at him. "Yep, they said you couldn't, just thought I'd make sure. Any road, I know you're not stupid. _Parlez-vous anglais? Ou français seulement? J'ai parle les deux._ How much English do you know?"

The boy lifted his hand, wobbled it. 

"Read and write?"

A headshake.

"Want to learn?"

The boy shrugged.

"Why not?"

The boy looked up at him. He could see puzzlement in his eyes; how do you answer that kind of a question? Especially if you _couldn't_ talk?

Claude grinned.

"I think my point's been made," he said. The boy smiled hesitantly. "So. Do you or do you not want to learn to read and write?"

The same hesitancy, but this time a nod.

"Fine. Stick with the professor, I'll help you out. My name's Claude. Nice to meet you, Haiti."

***

MOHINDER SURESH - NYC

Mohinder didn't think anyone had noticed when the scruffy intruder hit Sylar with his IV pole and Mohinder crashed to the ground. He groaned softly, but nobody was paying the slightest attention; Peter was slumped against the wall, and the other two were engaged in some kind of quiet battle of wills. 

The fire in his shoulders and hands was excruciating, but he thought he'd probably live; without Sylar's attention focused on him, the pressure on his ribcage and skull had lessened to the point where he was no longer crazed with pain. When the man took Peter and disappeared, he left Sylar unconscious for the moment. Mohinder was not about to let that chance slip past him.

He stumbled bleeding to his desk, falling over it and digging in the detritius for his laptop. His father's code was there, as well as the information on the genes that marked where the mutations began. He'd begun to run a search when Sylar attacked, so there'd be a partial list, and he couldn't give Sylar that. 

Even as he gathered it into his hands, bits and pieces of it fell away. He cursed. 

There was a crunching noise nearby; Sylar was beginning to come round. Mohinder felt blind terror grip him and as much as he would have liked to be the hero, the one who saved the day and killed the bad guy, he wasn't. Instead he bolted from the apartment, half-falling down the stairs and out into the street. Some stranger caught him by the arm and the last thing he heard as he passed out was a voice shouting "Call 911! Somebody beat the shit out of this dude!"

***

CLAUDE RAINS AND THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

"I've had better days than this," Claude said to the Haitian grimly, grabbing Peter and none-too-gently pulling him inside, kicking the door shut after him. "If you've come to take either one of us back to the Company -- "

"I have severed ties with the Company," the Haitian replied. 

"Then why are you here?"

The Haitian didn't answer; he helped Peter to a chair and walked into the kitchen, returning with a wet dishtowel. Peter accepted it and cleaned off his face, wiping blood away from what was now a fading scar. The haircut didn't look too bad on him, actually. 

"We can't stay here. Do you know how many fucking psychopaths are after us?" Claude demanded. 

"Us?" The Haitian lifted his eyebrow. 

"Fine, Bennett's after me and Bennett and a psychopath are after him."

"Sylar," the Haitian said.

"Come again?"

"There is a man by the name of Sylar. He has many powers. He escaped from Mr. Bennett."

"We should go back," Peter said thickly. "We should help Mohinder." 

"D'you _want_ to have your brain removed? 'Cause I could do that here," Claude answered. 

"But he's -- "

"He's got a fighting chance with old what's-his-name down for the count, and I'm not running back into that mess just to save some idiot who didn't know how to get out of the way in the first place."

"What's going on?" someone asked from the doorway, and Claude looked up. 

Jung, he knew, had formulated his ideas about synchronicity from an event wherein someone described to him a dream about a scarab beetle precisely at the same time as one landed on his window. Claude wasn't quite certain that he believed in a supernatural, magical, mystical synchronicity, but he knew that things had a way of coming together. Like called to like and when you believed in things like invisibility and telekinesis, because you could _do_ them, you had to believe the universe had a plan. Chaos might be the dominant god but Order slowly slipped in when he could. How else did you explain entropy?

Order was fucking him unlubricated tonight.

The girl standing in the doorway was extraordinarily beautiful. She'd been a pretty child, but gawky and somewhat shy, and of course his view of her had always been marred by Bennett's presence. Watching her pathetically trying to please daddy, while daddy had to keep his distance for reasons totally unrelated to her, was an ugly process. Older now, and grown into a power he could only dimly feel at this distance, she was quite striking. 

Her face lit up in a smile and she ran right past him, throwing her arms around Peter's neck. 

"You're here!" she squealed, and then, "Are you okay?"

"Claire?" Peter asked muzzily. "Yeah, I'm fine..."

"What happened?" She looked at Claude, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. "Who're you?"

"Nobody," Claude replied immediately. 

"You should be in bed," said the Haitian.

"Why are you here?" Peter murmured, looking from the Haitian to Claire and back. "What's going on?"

Claude watched a complicated set of emotions and silent questions telegraph back and forth between his partner's daughter and his former student. An amused, cynical part of his brain stood back and wondered how these darn kiddies grew up so blessed fast. 

"Claire was in danger. I brought her here," the Haitian said.

"Danger?" Peter asked. "Again? She can't be here -- the -- the man who came to kill you -- he's in New York -- "

"Be easy, Peter Petrelli," the Haitian said. "For now, we are safe here."

"How d'you know that?" Claude asked. 

"Because I've made sure of it," came a new voice. "Goodness, you children make a racket."

"Ma," Peter gasped, as Mrs. Petrelli swept into the room. "Aw, shit."

"Watch your tongue in front of your niece, Peter," she scolded. 

"My what?" Peter asked. Claude was interested by this development too, but she ignored the question.

"Everyone's been very worried about you, apparently with good reason. Who's your friend?" she added, wrinkling her nose. Claude was aware that he might, after the past day or so, be a little whiffy, but there was no call to be rude about it. 

"Just a passing samaritan," he said, backing towards the door. When things got too complicated, the best of all possible options was to disappear. "Happy to help."

He opened the door without looking at it, stepped out into the hallway, shut it again, and promptly Disappeared. As soon as he did, he heard footsteps and the door opening; Peter thrust his head out, but Claude had sensibly retreated around a corner and, after a moment, the door closed again.

***

JESSICA SANDERS - LAS VEGAS

Linderman's secretary put the gun in Jessica's hand. She looked down at it, then back at the woman.

"What the hell is this?" she asked.

"Your gun," the woman replied. She gave Jessica a little smirk. "Mr. Linderman no longer requires your services in the Petrelli affair."

"That's it?"

The woman sighed. "You failed to kill Mr. Petrelli. He acquired your weapon. He has very graciously returned it to us."

"So what do I do now?"

"Go home, Ms. Sanders. Wait for your next package. Meditate on your failure. Mr. Linderman doesn't _need_ you right now."

Frustration burned through Jessica. That little bitch, that ungrateful little bitch who shared their body, had fucked things up again. 

A light blinked on the woman's desk. Jessica watched as she picked up the telephone. She said a few words, smiled, and then hung up.

"You might have a chance to redeem yourself after all," she said, as a fax began spitting out pages nearby. "How would you like to take your family to New York, Ms. Sanders?"

***

HIRO AND ANDO - THE DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC  
THE FUTURE

The air felt gritty and greasy, but Ando hardly noticed. He was looking out at the vast expanse of New York City, much of it now untidy rubble, but in the distance -- 

Yes. The cranes were moving. 

"They're rebuilding," he said to Hiro, pointing. Hiro followed his gaze. Even as they watched, one of the giant machines lifted a beam into place and nearly-invisible figures began to undo the cables. 

Ando was a man who liked things tidy, who liked everything to have its appointed place. New York had appalled him with its disorderly mess of buildings and streets, much as some areas of Tokyo did. Ando was the sort of man who liked cubicles. And yet he found himself appalled at the idea that crossed his mind: that at least now New York could be rebuilt in a sensible and rational manner. 

He was glad to feel appalled; that was the Ando who had rescued Hiro from the archives, the Ando he was becoming. Ando liked this new person much better. 

"We didn't stop it," Hiro said, looking crushed. 

"Yet," Ando suggested hopefully.

"I thought, as soon as I had the sword..." Hiro trailed off, leaning on the stone parapet. Behind him, a flock of pigeons fluttered down to the concrete, pecking amongst the ruins. 

"Well, you haven't had it very long," Ando said. "Hiro, this place creeps me out. Can't you take us back?"

"Maybe we should find...someone," Hiro said doubtfully. "Find out what happened and then go back and stop it. Information is power," he added soberly.

 _"Who's there?"_ a voice called out in English, and both of them turned. Ando heard Hiro reach for the sword; it was already an instinct. _"Don't fucking move."_

Ando, who had put one hand on his gun, now raised both in the air; Hiro followed suit, stepping forward to stand next to Ando. There was a man with a bandanna tied around his head, falling down over the left side of his face. He held a gun in one hand.

 _"Fucking cops,"_ he said, staring at Ando, still in his security uniform. _"Fucking squatter squad!"_

He raised the gun and Ando felt Hiro grasp him around the shoulders roughly. He heard the gun fire, felt the air split -- 

And opened his eyes to the smell of fresh, green growing things, rain, New York City exhaust. Hiro stood next to him, eyes still shut, teeth gritted. Ando looked around. 

"Hah!" he said, punching Hiro in the shoulder. "Haha! You did it! We're back!" 

Hiro opened his eyes cautiously. "We are?"

Ando gestured around him at the panoramic view of the city, whole and unexploded. His heart thumped with relief. Hiro began to laugh too.

"We're back! Hooray! We did it!" Hiro shouted, leaping around the rooftop. "Hello, New York City!"

Then it happened. 

Ando's eyes widened as light flared in the distance, then smoke, then a raging rush of fire. He looked at Hiro and leapt to make contact. He had about two seconds in which to do so, but he fell short; Hiro disappeared even as he reached him.

Ando turned in despair to face the oncoming firestorm, realising that they were not back in New York when they should be, but rather in New York on November Eighth. 

And _they_ were not there. He was there. Alone.

Facing the firestorm.


	2. Chapter 2

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS

Matt didn't know what was going on, but he had the sinking feeling -- one he'd had many times in a life brim-full of mediocrity -- that he'd made the wrong decision. Actually, no; a chain of wrong decisions. 

Down in the cells -- perhaps they were in the paper factory -- he could still hear things. He could Hear them, when he tried hard. 

He had come to understand that the dangerous ones were kept somewhere else, somewhere they couldn't use their powers at all, and he had purposefully been as docile as possible, trying not to be put there. It didn't come easy to a cop. Even off-duty, people expected you to take charge. 

He could hear Bennett coming around in the next cell over, even if Bennett had no idea he was there. He heard the first waking thoughts: _Claire -- Lyle -- Sandra._ He felt Bennett's pain, the pain of a prolonged interrogation, the fear of being a prisoner in one of his own cages, the horror over what may have happened to his family, to his children. He heard what the men had told him about his wife and son.

Matt kept quiet. 

Then in a rush, all the memories of what had happened flooded him just as they flooded Bennett's mind. Christ, when he was alone Bennett was totally unguarded. Matt heard everything. The memory loss, the message from his wife, the letter in his own handwriting, the cleanup in New York...

Bennett knew how to put Matt's gift to use. Bennett was _good_ at thinking ahead. Matt wasn't, and he knew it. 

Matt sat in his solitary room, the room they said they'd let him out of, and concentrated. He concentrated so hard his ears began to roar. Surely if he could hear then he could talk as well. If other peoples' thoughts were so crystal clear to him, big dumb Matt Parkman, it couldn't be that hard.

He concentrated on a single word, on his name -- a meditation he would have been surprised to know was much older than himself. He wanted to make Bennett hear him, if only because there was nothing else to do in the cell. 

_Parkman. Parkman. Parkman._

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - NYC

A limo met Nathan at the airport, instead of his usual sedan, and the driver told him his wife sent her greetings but she was in a charity board meeting all day. Nathan couldn't have been happier, really, though he felt a guilty twinge about that. He shouldn't be avoiding Heidi. 

"Your mother has asked me to take you straight to your brother's apartment," the driver said, holding the door for him. 

"We are all at the mercy of my mother," Nathan replied, and tried to smile. Once inside, he put the front-seat barrier up for privacy and opened his briefcase. He had campaigning to do; work couldn't wait just because he felt like he'd been beaten with lead pipes all night.

There was a soft rustling noise nearby and, when he looked up, someone was sitting in his car.

"Yargh," he managed, and fumbled for the driver-phone. The man put out a hand and clamped it firmly in place. 

"Hullo, friend," he said. 

He looked scruffy -- he looked _homeless._ Nathan leaned back slowly.

"Whatever you want, just take it and get out," he said. The man smiled.

"I don't want anything, other than a little favour," he replied. 

"Is there anyone who doesn't want one of those from me?" Nathan asked wearily.

"You're a politician; aren't you supposed to enjoy serving the common man?" he asked. "Not that I'm a constituent, I don't vote. Illegal alien and all."

"The accent tipped me off," Nathan said drily.

"But it behooves you all the same," the man continued, "to carry a message for me. In return, I can make you an offer of something much more valuable than favours."

"What's that?"

"Information," the man said. "Like the fact that when you go up the stairs to wee Peter's flat, your daughter's going to be waiting for you there."

"My -- what?" Nathan asked.

"Daughter," the man said. "Forewarned is forearmed; don't let you mum bowl you over with it, that gives her the upper hand. In the meantime, help out a friend in need. I can be a good friend to you, Petrelli. Ask your brother."

"Who _are_ you?" Nathan asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Nobody," the man replied. "I just want you to tell your brother something."

Nathan spread his hands, invitingly.

"Tell him they're both gone, and if he wants to find me he knows where I am," he said. "Tell him to follow his priorities. And if I were you, brother, I'd get that girl of yours out of the country as fast as possible."

Then he _disappeared._

"I have had about enough of this shit," Nathan muttered.

***

JESSICA AND MICAH SANDERS AND DL HAWKINS - LAS VEGAS

"Wake up, sleepyhead!" 

Micah drifted into consciousness with a giggle, because Mom was tickling him. 

"Wake uuuuuup!" she sang, flopping down on the edge of the bed. He sat up and grinned, yawning. 

"Morning," Dad called from the other room.

"Hey, I've got a surprise for you," Mom said.

"What's that?" Micah asked, as Dad walked into the room. Both of them were grinning.

"Well, _we_ are going on a vacation," Mom declared, holding up an envelope. Micah opened it and saw three plane tickets to New York. "I got into a special school for casino dealers and we get to spend three weeks in New York!"

"Really?" Micah asked, bouncing excitedly. 

"You still gotta do your schoolwork," Dad said from the doorway. "We're going to have your teachers give you all your assignments today before we leave." 

"Are we gonna stay in a hotel?" Micah asked.

"Yeeees," Mom answered.

"And eat room service?"

"Maybe once or twice," she replied. 

"And go to the Empire State Building?"

"How bout we have breakfast first," Dad said. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN  
THE FUTURE

When Hiro vanished, Ando turned to face the firestorm alone. It was coming at an alarming rate and he saw, behind it, the mushroom cloud rising from the center of the city. 

That single second seemed to take forever, the fire slowing down even as Ando's thought processes sped up. In a crystal moment he comprehended everything: the road they had followed to reach this point, the inevitability of human destiny, the fact that Ando Masahashi would soon cease to exist -- and the fact that he, Ando, could face death head-on and unflinchingly. He had helped Hiro acquire the sword; that was enough, and he could die honourably.

Then a hand touched his shoulder and, with a jerk, the fire and the cloud and the heat and the impending death all disappeared. Instead, he was standing on a streetcorner, in the middle of the unblemished day. 

"Ando-kun."

Ando turned around. Hiro stood behind him, but not his Hiro, that much was clear. Hiro -- older, careworn, with a funny little beard and strange clothing.

"I don't have much time," this not-Hiro said, heedless of the people around them, all of whom were frozen in place. 

"You saved me!" Ando exclaimed.

"Yes. Today it is two days before you leave Las Vegas; if you wait here, you will be reunited soon. Tell him what has happened, and not to worry." Not-Hiro gave him a funny sort of smile. 

"But what -- "

"Find Hiro; find Peter Petrelli; save the Cheerleader, save the world," he said, and disappeared. The people around Ando began to move again, talk and laugh and hail taxicabs.

Ando looked around him. He was back in the great, confusing, overwhelming mass of humanity that was New York City; he had the clothes on his back, a gun, and about three dollars in his pocket. A week ago he would have waited for Hiro, shouted at him, and tried to beat some sense into that thick skull of his. He might even have tried that a few days ago. 

Now, though, he'd looked the maelstrom in the face and survived. He'd prepared for death, and the fact that he had been rescued had not changed that. He was beyond death now; all time between now and when he died was a gift.

Ando grinned. He felt like a samurai. 

Even without a sword.

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

Peter sensed, dimly, that his family as a whole was reaching the breaking point. His mother, tense and concerned about Claire, was sharp and brittle; Claire herself paced and fretted, waiting to meet the father she'd never seen. God only knew what had happened to Nathan in Las Vegas. 

Peter didn't even know which way to turn anymore. He knew that Claude had come back for him, but he didn't know why, and as soon as Claude encountered Claire the older man had clammed up and vanished. His mother had explained to him that Claire was his niece, and how that had come about, which did sort of fit in with some memories Peter had of his brother at a younger age. 

Sylar had tried to kill him. Mohinder might be dead. Simone _was_ dead. Isaac might be in prison by now. 

Peter found himself impatient for Nathan to arrive home. Nathan had made his life difficult in the past few weeks, Nathan had used him for his own political gain and had ignored him when he didn't fit the perfect-Petrelli-family mold, but -- Nathan was his brother. When he was a kid, really little, Nathan used to read him comic books and take him for walks. He wanted his big brother. Even more so than his mother or his tormented father, Nathan had been the comforting constant in his childhood. 

Failing Nathan, Claude would do, but apparently Claude was still either pissed at him or in hiding. 

When the door opened, Peter leapt to his feet and the Haitian placed himself subtly between the door and Claire, as if he were expecting trained assassins. Peter didn't think he could cope with trained assassins, not after the night he'd had, but it was okay; it was Nathan.

"Hello, sweetheart," their mother said, kissing Nathan on the cheek and hugging him tightly. Nathan winked at Peter over Mom's shoulder, rubbing her back affectionately. Peter would say this about Nathan -- he knew how to put a room at ease.

"Glad to see you, Peter," he said gravely, gripping Peter's shoulder. "You okay?"

Peter nodded. "Good you're back."

"Thanks. Hey, who's your friend?" he asked, indicating the Haitian with a jerk of his head.

"Just a bodyguard," the man answered, and stepped aside.

Claire stood there, fingers twined together, toes turned in, an odd picture of shyness. Peter glanced at Nathan, but didn't see the confusion he expected. Nathan seemed to comprehend what was going on, and right before Mom opened her mouth to stun him further, Nathan spoke.

"And you must be Claire," he said, his voice low and unsteady. She tilted up her chin just slightly when he said her name. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Peter saw the expression on his mother's face and it dawned on him that there was a game being played. Mom wanted Nathan to agree to something, and she wanted him to be so bewildered by his daughter's presence that he would do whatever she told him. Nathan had somehow got one jump ahead of her, and she was recalculating her strategies.

"Claire is the reason I asked you to come directly here," Mom said, but she might as well have been shouting into a black hole. In that moment in time, nobody but Claire even existed for Nathan. And, Peter suspected, everyone but Nathan was background noise to Claire.

"You look like your mother," Nathan said.

"I thought you'd be blond," Claire replied.

"No -- no, I'm not," Nathan said. Peter began to get a trifle impatient. "When did you arrive? In New York, I mean."

"Last night," Claire answered. "I uh. I was looking for Peter, actually."

Nathan glanced at Peter. "You knew about her?"

"Yeah, but -- " Peter gestured at the girl. "I didn't know she was family or anything. She's the one, Nathan. The cheerleader."

"This -- she's the one?"

"The one I saved. Using the painting?" Peter said. He heard an edge in his voice that he didn't like, and tried to tone it down. Especially since Mom was now looking at him approvingly, as if he'd done what she couldn't do in putting Nathan off his stride. 

Peter weighed the moment and made a decision. If Mom and Nathan were on different sides, that meant Claire was in the middle. If he was going to pick a faction, he'd pick Claire's. 

"If you boys are done bickering, we have important things to discuss," Mom said. "Claire's in danger in New York; we have to decide what's to be done with her. She objects to the very sensible idea of sending her out of the country."

"I don't want to go," Claire said. There was a certain teenage stridence to her tone that sounded awfully familiar to Peter. "I want to stay here."

"Course she wants to stay here," Nathan said, still staring at her. He hadn't moved, as if he were afraid to touch her.

"With Peter," Claire added. Nathan frowned. "I trust him. He can protect me."

"Peter can't even protect himself," their mother declared. 

"Thanks, Ma," Peter retorted.

"You'd have been beheaded if it weren't for that horrible Irishman," Mom said. 

"He's not Irish, and he saved my life," Peter said hotly. He saw Nathan turn slowly to look at him.

"What Irishman?" Nathan asked distantly.

"He's not Irish!"

Nathan waved this off in irritation. "Scruffy? Beard, and...hair?" he gestured to his forehead, drawing the unmistakeable outline of Claude's messy forelock. 

"Yeah," Peter said, curious now. "How do you know him?"

"I bumped into him," Nathan said.

***

NIKI/JESSICA - SOMEWHERE OVER ILLINOIS

Micah, overexcited by his first actual airplane trip ever, promptly fell asleep as soon as they were airborne. 

DL was in the window seat, like a gentleman, and was pensively staring out at the clouds, like a dumbass. 

Jessica was aware that DL was nervous about this trip, not only because it was sponsored by Linderman but because DL was increasingly suspicious of his wife and what she could do. He'd be keeping a close watch on her, and she couldn't risk any more interruptions by Niki. She was doing this for Niki's own good, after all.

And who said she couldn't enjoy it while she did it, anyway?

Jessica liked looking after Micah so long as it didn't interfere with what she wanted to do, and she liked DL in the same way she might be fond of a dog, as long as the dog didn't poo on the floor or chew on her shoes. Niki enjoyed being the Mommy, so if Niki ever agreed to a logical sharing of the body like she should, Niki could be let out to look after the kid and the husband. All Jessica asked was that Niki not interfere with the part of their mutual life that made everything _work._

The paperwork from Linderman had long since been memorised and burned, at least what there was of it. She had a contact to report to in New York, who would supply her with a weapon and additional instructions. Her goal was to make sure that Nathan Petrelli won his election, and her means were to be whatever she saw fit. She wondered who you talked to about ballot-box stuffing. Not that anyone used ballotboxes anymore; it was all done on computer now. 

She glanced at Micah, sleeping next to her. The kid was a brat, but he did have skills. She wondered if it was possible to talk him into giving mommy a hand. Probably not. 

Well, then she's just have to do it the hard way.

She reflected, as they flew, that Petrelli had been a good fuck. A little desperate, sure, but what did she expect from a guy whose wife was in a wheelchair? 

If she played the Niki card, she could probably get him alone again. And she didn't really think there was a man alive who could resist her if she got him alone. 

One way or another.

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

"We still need to decide what's to be done with Claire," Mom insisted, and Nathan rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Do I get a say in this at all?" Claire asked, sulkily. 

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous."

"Ma, knock it off for a minute, okay?" Nathan said. Everyone looked at him as if he'd blasphemed. "You said this was a family decision. She's my daughter."

His mother got that drawn-mouthed, tight-lipped look she always got when she was annoyed. "Fine. You sort it out."

"Just...have a seat, jeez," he said, gesturing Claire towards the couch. "Peter, kitchen?"

"Sure," Peter said, looking perplexed. He followed Nathan into the kitchen, watching the way he used to watch when they were kids -- more trustful than he'd been in months, possibly years. 

"What's up?" he asked quietly, as they stood at the far end of the hallway. Nathan glanced up at Claire, eyeing them through the door. 

"I met your friend this morning. He showed up in my _car_ ," Nathan said.

"Claude?"

"Scruffy English guy?"

Peter grinned. "Yeah, that's Claude. What'd he say? Is he pissed?"

"Didn't seem like it. He gave me a message for you."

"Yeah, what -- " Peter stopped when Nathan grabbed his shoulder, fingers flexing gently. 

"Peter."

"What?"

"I want you to promise me when I tell you this you won't run off again. Every time you run without thinking you get hurt. This has gotta stop," Nathan said. "Whatever this means, whatever you take from it, we're going to sit here and work it out together, okay?"

Peter set his jaw. "You have to deal with Claire right now."

"You think I can't do both?"

"I think I'll do what needs to be done. If it had been up to you, Claire'd be dead right now."

"You think I don't know that? If it had been up to you, _you'd_ have died last night."

"Are you gonna tell me what Claude said or not?"

Nathan glanced at Claire, then back down at Peter. He owed Peter for his daughter's life, and he owed Claude for his brother's. 

"He said to tell you they're both gone, and if you want to find him you know where he is. He says to follow your priorities," he added. Peter drew back, dismayed and thoughtful. "Do you even know what that means?"

Peter turned around to study Claire.

"Yeah," he said. "It means this is where I have to be right now. At least until we've made sure she'll be safe."

"Then what?"

"Claude can help me. He taught me how to control what I already have. I know he knows more." Peter looked thoughtful. "I should try to find Mohinder."

"Suresh? You think he can still help? From the sound of things..."

"Can't hurt, can it?" Peter said. "What're you going to do about Claire?" 

"You think we ought to do what Ma wants? Get her out of the country?"

"Save the cheerleader, save the world," Peter recited.

"I thought you already did that."

"She look safe to you?"

"So," Nathan said. "We want her in New York. Where we can protect her."

"Yeah."

"Not in my house. Do you _know_ what Heidi would -- "

"Yeah, I can imagine," Peter said, grinning. "She can stay here."

"I don't know that here's any safer," Nathan said. "Let's just work on keeping her in New York for now. You got my back?"

An odd look crossed Peter's face. "You need me to have your back?"

"Well, yeah," Nathan said. Peter's grin could have lit the room. 

"Okay then."

***

JACK BAKER - OJAI, CALIFORNIA

Jack Baker woke up one morning and knew where everything was.

He stepped directly over the toy train at the foot of his bed, left there by one of the sibs, and walked to the bathroom, where he not only picked up the tweezers that had fallen down between sink and bathtub, but swiped his mother's bottle of Vicodin from its hiding place inside the bigger, empty bottle of Mylanta. Coming down the stairs, he took Mom's keys out of her coat pocket and threw them on the counter so she'd see them. Dad passed with a plate of waffles right as he walked into the kitchen, so he snagged two without him even noticing. He reached around the door, grabbed one of the twins, and shoved him into his seat around the family breakfast table. 

On his way out the door after eating, he picked up the remote June had shoved in dad's shoe and put it back on the couch, then located his keys in yesterday's jeans and got into the car. Richard, the twins, and Amy piled in after him while he was reaching under the driver's seat to dig out the copy of _A Tale Of Two Cities_ he'd left there last semester. 

He made good time dropping off the sibs, only slowing down when he could tell there was a cop in a speed trap ahead. He found the closest possible parking space (he was certain), took it, and walked into school. Molly White had a stash in her locker, so he went to Molly's locker before first period, turned the combination lock till he knew the tumblers were in the right place, and opened it. He took the stash and closed the locker behind him. Even as he shoved it in his pocket he heard the bell ring and saw the principal walking up to the bank of lockers with a pair of cops. Random search. Score for Molly _and_ for Jack. 

All day he kept finding shit -- twenty bucks and change in addition to Molly's pot, plus three pencils, a couple of paperclips, and half a pack of cigarettes. Jack didn't question. He had a theory that when you were at one with the world, things worked out for you, and clearly he had finally reached the zone. Sure, it had taken him till his Senior year, but hey, he was at least one up on some part of the population. 

That afternoon he did the rounds, picking up his siblings and reminding Amy that she left her thermos in the classroom. While she ran back to get it, he found thirty cents and a baseball in the bushes nearby. At dinner, he carefully picked every single bone out of his fish, which was awesome because he hated fish bones. 

"You've been awfully quiet today," Mom said at dinner.

"Oh, just, you know. Feelin' it," Jack said.

"Right on," Dad answered. Dad had been at Woodstock, and never let Jack forget it, even if he'd been like, eight at the time. "In the zone?"

"And rocking it out," Jack replied. His dad pumped his fist in the air, and the twins imitated him.

"All right, homework time," Mom said, and Jack shooed the little ones upstairs. 

"Hey, listen, I got a book report," he told his father, who nodded sagely. "The noise in here's kinda harsh, you know? Imma run out and get some work done in the storage shed."

Whether his parents really were that dumb, or whether they were just relieved that Jack's grades were holding A+ steady, Jack didn't know. He did know his parents had given him run of the storage shed out back, his privilege as the oldest child, and nobody was to bug Jack or his pals when they were studying in the shed.

Jack grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and his backpack and retreated to the shed. He sat down, set up his notebook and schoolbooks just in case, and tossed back one of Mom's pills before filling the pipe (dude, he'd been looking for that pipe for _weeks_ ) that had rolled under the nonfunctional weed-whacker. 

Jack was no idiot, and he'd done a lot of research during Chem class last year. He knew that marijuana wasn't a hallucinogen. His last conscious thought as he swirled down into the hallucination was that this couldn't possibly be happening. 

His first conscious thought on waking was that, of all the stupid shit to see on your first trip out of reality, he saw a fucking Nissan Versa in a Las Vegas airport parking lot. 

His second thought was that his spirit walk had come, and Dad was going to be really pissed that he didn't graduate high school first.


	3. Chapter 3

SYLAR - NYC

Sylar didn't understand.

He was unused to failing, at least when it came to killing other people. Petrelli had thwarted him twice now, or anyway had been present at both of his failures. He didn't know who had attacked him -- some ally in their futile push to keep him from attaining his evolutionary peak.

He awoke alone in Mohinder's apartment, nursing a few bruised ribs and a headache. Peter was gone; Mohinder was gone; whoever had attacked him was gone, and Sylar was _furious._

He bellowed his rage at the walls, tearing through the room to try and find the laptop. He tore down the map, tore up half the paperwork he came across, threw anything breakable against a wall. When he finally caught his breath he stood, shoulders heaving, in the middle of the wreckage.

"Mohinder Suresh," he said, each syllable dripping with hatred.

And he went out into the city.

He'd killed the father, after all; it wouldn't be so hard to kill the son.

Funny world. Mohinder had followed so closely in his father's footsteps, almost as if Sylar were guiding both of them. And when a child rebelled against a guiding hand, sometimes they needed punishment.

He would take care of Suresh first. Then he would find Petrelli and the other man, and he'd consume them body and soul. Then the cheerleader -- yes, he'd go back for her. After that...the possibilities were endless.

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

"Well, Nathan?" Mom said, looking at him with cruel expectation. "Have you boys decided to choose for my granddaughter without my input?"

Nathan knew that he and Peter were different. It wasn't actually that Dad had loved him more, it was just that he was more like Dad, and Peter was an odd, alien creature to both Dad and Nathan. Peter didn't like playing games and wasn't very good at them; Peter was easily bored by the cut and thrust of debate if the principles involved didn't concern him directly. Peter didn't care about theories if there were actual people around to care about.

Thing was, someone had to care about the bigger picture, and Nathan _did_ like to play games. He sank his teeth into this one all the more firmly because he was playing against Mom.

"As if we could," he said, leaning over to kiss his mother on the forehead. As he did so, he cut his eyes at Claire, hoping she'd get the message: shut up and stay put. "No, Peter and I were just saying, we should respect your wishes in the matter."

He glanced at Claire again. Peter was gripping her arm tightly, just below the table.

"That's very smart of you Nathan, though I sense there's a 'but' coming," Mom said.

"Well, there is and there isn't. We -- Peter and I -- both think that if she leaves the country she's going to need even more protection. She won't speak the language, and how do we know this -- what's his name, Peter?"

"Sylar," Peter said.

"This Sylar guy isn't going to jump ship and go after her? He did once already."

His mother watched him. There was a cynical sort of resignation in her eyes already, which was a good sign.

"So, Peter and I have decided that wherever she goes, one of us should go with her," Nathan finished. "Or both, preferably. I know what you're going to say, there's the campaign, but really, Ma. My family is what's most important to me right now. And we'll, you know. We'll break it to Heidi somehow."

His mother had quit smoking years ago, but if she were smoking, right that minute, she'd be grinding her cigarette out in the ashtray.

"I told you, weeks ago," she said calmly. "I told you not to see the girl, that you'd get one look at those big innocent eyes and you'd turn into a gibbering idiot. Well, you've proven me right, Nathan, congratulations."

"He turned into an idiot too," Nathan said, jerking his head at Peter, who scowled.

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Mom sighed. "I don't understand why you insist on staying, Claire, or why your father and uncle insist on indulging you, but I suppose I shall have to learn to live with it."

Claire squeaked and, to Nathan's delight, hugged him first. True, he was closer than Peter, but the point was, Claire hugged _him_ first, _then_ Peter. Then her grandmother, and what a strange sight that was. Nathan realised that Claire had her grandmother's nose.

This child, this headstrong girl with far more in common with Peter than himself, this _blonde_ girl, was his flesh and blood.

His mother released her granddaughter. "But she can't -- "

"-- stay here," the Petrelli brothers chorused in unison.

"Neither can Peter, not with this man chasing after him," Nathan continued. "I'll have my guys at the Justice Department find you a place to stay."

"You do that -- I have some errands to run," Peter said. He rose, kissing his mother on the cheek. "I'll be back before dinner."

"Peter -- " Mom gripped his sleeve convulsively. Both men looked at her. "Don't go alone."

"It's fine, Ma," Peter said. "I'll be safe."

"Take Nathan, or -- "

"Not me," the Haitian said, even before she gestured at him. "I have business of my own once the girl is safe."

Nathan saw, with surprise, that his mother suddenly looked very small, and very old. Her sons were conspiring against her, her granddaughter was in danger, and -- well, whatever the Haitian was to her, he was betraying her too.

"Peter's all right. He'll be careful, and I don't think he'll be alone for long," Nathan said, glancing at Peter.

***

HIRO AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Ando waited two days for Hiro, stoically, rarely moving from the spot in which the not-Hiro had left him. He removed the badge from his uniform shirt, pawned his radio, and used the money to buy his meals off the hot-dog cart, sleeping in a nearby homeless shelter at night. His suitcase was still in the Versa which was still parked in long-term airport parking in Las Vegas, but at least it was safe there.

On the third day, the day Nathan Petrelli returned to New York (not that Ando could know that) and the day his hope and patience were beginning to fail, Hiro ran into him. Literally.

Ando had realised that the building he was standing near was the one with the cement roof, the one they'd been on when New York had gone up in flames. He half-expected Hiro would run out the door and into him, but Hiro ran sideways into him instead, as if he were going _to_ the door.

Hiro picked himself up, hurriedly apologised, and was about to run on when Ando stopped him. Hiro paused, stared at him, beamed widely, and hugged him tightly.

"Ando, you're safe!" he cried. "I'm so sorry! How did you get away?"

"You saved me!" Ando said joyously. "The other you, with the sword!"

Hiro's eyes grew wide and impressed. "I did?"

"Yes! Where are you going?"

"To the rooftop to try and save you! I teleported to _Cen-tu-rol Parku_ by mistake!"

"Let's get out of the crowds," Ando said urgently. "I'll tell you everything. Where should we go?"

Hiro considered this, and then his face lit up.

" _Mr. Isaac!_ "

***

PETER PETRELLI - NYC

Peter was a nurse. Granted, he was a hospice nurse, but he'd done his time in the hospital system and he knew where most of the major ones were in New York. He took his hospital ID with him when he left, and twenty minutes later he was sitting at a computer, scrolling through admissions records. If Mohinder was gone from his apartment, as Claude had told him via Nathan, then he was either in the hospital or at the mercy of Sylar. If he was with Sylar, there was nothing Peter could do. If he was in the hospital --

Bingo.

The database threw up four Indian John Doe admissions in the past twelve hours, two of them apparently cabdrivers in a head-on collision. One was a homeless man being treated for exposure; one was a mugging victim. Peter printed out the last record -- hospital address, room number, supervising doctor -- and logged out.

"Thanks," he said to the pretty nurse at the admissions desk. He threw on his coat, bolted out the door, and hailed a cab.

***

HIRO, ANDO, AND ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

Mr. Isaac must make decent money to live where he did, even if it was cold and drafty and not very well-furnished. The view from the windows outside his workshop was superb, and Hiro always paused, dawdling along the hallway, to look at the city. Hiro knew that he was the kind of man who could be happy anywhere, if only he had a reason; urban Tokyo or suburban Texas, it was all one to him as long as there were places to explore, people to meet. He found New York enthralling, but the love of city came from the love of the people in it, not the other way around.

Mr. Isaac's workshop was oddly quiet, though they could see him working through the window. Hiro hesitated at the door.

"Should we go in?" Ando asked. "He's painting."

"I wonder what it is this time," Hiro replied. "Perhaps if we come in quietly. He looks nearly done anyway."

He knocked gently on the door, then opened it; Mr. Isaac didn't look up.

 _"Mr. Isaac?"_ he said quietly, coming down the stairs. "Mr. Isaac, it is Hiro and Ando."

Still no reply. Ando tried to peer around the painter's body to see what he was painting. From where Hiro stood, it looked like a car. In fact, it looked kind of like the --

 _"Is that our Versa?"_ Ando asked, squinting.

 _"Mr. Isaac, why are you painting our Versa?"_ Hiro asked.

"That's not us driving," Ando said in an undertone.

 _"Mr. Isaac, we are very sorry to be intrude,"_ Hiro began, _"But we were hoping -- "_

 _"Shut up,"_ Mr. Isaac said between clenched teeth.

 _"Um, sorry?"_ Hiro tried.

_"SHUT UP!"_

Mr. Isaac turned around then, fetching up a canvas knife from a nearby tray as he did so. Hiro saw the knife first and leaned back in time to avoid having his throat slit; Ando was already backing towards the stairs.

Beyond the artist waving a canvas knife in his face, Hiro saw the painting. It _was_ their Versa, zooming along a night-black road somewhere. Driven by a blond man, a very obviously not-Japanese man.

Then he saw Mr. Isaac's white, unseeing eyes.

He turned and ran, Ando a step ahead of him, and neither of them stopped until they were downstairs on the street again.

"I don't think he wants us to stay with him," Ando said, breathing heavily. Hiro clutched a stitch in his side. "What do we do now? Our Versa's been stolen!"

Hiro panted. "Nothing we can...do about that....got to find somewhere....to stay first."

Ando bit his lip. Hiro looked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"What about Nathan Petrelli?" Ando asked, pointing over Hiro's shoulder. A row of posters, all bearing the Flying Man's grinning image, looked down on them both.

***

PETER PETRELLI AND MOHINDER SURESH - NYC

The dark-skinned man under all the wires could have been Mohinder, but it was hard to tell. His face was swollen, his nose broken, and parts of his forehead were swathed in bandages. Peter had to get down on eye level and look at his profile to be sure.

"Are you a friend?" the doctor asked, sympathetically.

"Sort of," Peter said. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He's had a few pretty serious hits to the head," the doctor said. "We don't know yet."

"You don't _know_?"

The doctor frowned. "This coma he's in...could last a few days, a week, could be the rest of his life. We simply don't have enough information yet. He, uh. Do you know if he does drugs at all?"

"Drugs?" Peter asked. "Why would you...?"

"Well, they picked him up with an empty syringe in his pocket, and he wouldn't let go of his computer."

"He had his computer with him?"

"Sure, we've got it in property lockup now. Not that it'll be functional, I think. Is he your boyfriend?"

Peter shook his head. "Just a friend. Listen...I think the guys who did this might not give up until they do some real damage, you know? I don't know if he's safe."

"Well, hospital security is pretty good, and we can restrict access to his room..."

Peter thought hard. Security wouldn't stop Sylar. But then, Mohinder was no good to Sylar unconscious, and without the information in his files.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll need to make some calls -- can I have a moment alone before I go?"

The doctor nodded and went off to register the new information Peter had given him. Peter, as soon as he was alone, laid his hands on Mohinder's arm. He thought about that cop he met in Odessa. Parker? Boardman? Parkman, that one. He thought about how afraid and sick and scared he'd been, and how Parkman had slammed some asprin down in front of him -- a seemingly hostile gesture that still bespoke some urge to look after people. He thought about Parkman's surprise when they started hearing each others' thoughts --

Peter opened his mind and Listened, unaware that several hundred miles away, Matt Parkman was trying very hard to make someone else hear him. He tried to hear if there was the faintest response from Mohinder on any level, but all he managed to hear was the nurse outside, thinking about how hot he was. Flattering, but not exactly helpful.

He sighed and stopped. Instead he thought about Claude, and the immediate surge of annoyance and curiousity made him Disappear almost immediately.

He knew where most hospitals kept their property lockup, and he knew how to find Mohinder's belongings. There were some advantages to being a nurse, after all.

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT -- ODESSA, TEXAS

_Parkman. Parkman. Parkman._

It wasn't working.

Matt knew he didn't have the hang of it, but it was like the dyslexia. He'd always been certain, if he just tried a little bit harder, if he looked at something in a slightly different way, he'd get it. He knew if he just adjusted his head...

Matt closed his eyes, thought of his name, and tried to shove it out of his skull, into Bennett's head.

The sound of Bennett's lips parting, a crackling, dry kind of noise, was the sweetest sound Matt ever heard.

"Parkman," Bennett said, in exactly the inflection Matt had thought it.

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Nathan's Justice-Department buddy had warned him that Claire's digs wouldn't be the finest, but he had hoped it would at least be nicer than what they got. 

"This is witness protection?" Nathan had asked, eyeing the fading wallpaper and sagging furniture.

"When you win your race, get us some funding for the penthouse suite," Richard grunted in reply. "Who's the girl?"

"Friend of my brother's. She's in a little over her head," Nathan said, and Richard had merely nodded. "Peter may show up. Try not to shoot him, okay?"

"Sure. Nice kid."

"Do not let this girl out of your sight," Nathan murmured.

"Didn't plan on it," Richard replied.

"Thanks. I'll be checking in."

He went to Claire, who was standing at the window, and hesitantly touched her shoulder.

"Hey, sorry to leave you here," he said.

"It's safe, right?" she asked. "And Peter's coming."

"Yeah," Nathan said, trying not to sound bitter. "I think he'll be around this evening. Do you -- want me to come back? To visit?"

"Are you special?" Claire asked, looking up at him.

"Uh. Special?" he stammered.

"Like us. Me and Peter. And my mom. Are you special? Different?"

"Different how?"

"You know how."

Nathan leaned over, making sure Richard couldn't hear. "You can't fly, can you?"

"No. Can you?"

"Sometimes," Nathan admitted. Claire smiled.

"Can you come this afternoon?"

"Not today. I'll come by after breakfast tomorrow," he'd promised. It was maybe a dumb promise to make, but she seemed happy, and that was what mattered.

That had been an hour ago, but it was hard to get it off his mind. Still, he had work to do, and this campaign wasn't going to run itself. Especially since there were bound to be questions, sooner or later, about the dead FBI agents and why Nathan hadn't said anything about them.

He was leaning over a table, making adjustments to the post-election agenda, when he heard trouble approaching. It was funny the way you could hear it coming, sometimes.

"Sorry -- oh, so sorry. Vote Petrelli! Excuse me. Ex-cuse me. Sorry. Vote Petrelli! Nasan Petrelli for congress!"

Nathan looked up, slowly. Hiro Nakamura was making his way through campaign headquarters, edging around eager volunteers and hard-working temps. He had a sword strapped to his back, and Ando was with him.

"Gentlemen, if I could have five minutes," he said, and his aides evaporated. Hiro arrived breathlessly at the table.

"Vote Petrelli!" he said, bowing in greeting. Nathan bowed back.

"I thought you were in Las Vegas," he said.

"We sought _you_ were in Las Vegas," Hiro replied.

"I flew home."

Hiro grinned and made a gesture that resembled a man taking off from earth. Nathan cocked an eyebrow.

"In a plane," he clarified. "I see you got your sword."

"The real thing," Hiro agreed proudly, reaching for it. "You see -- ?"

"No! No, uh, taking a samurai sword out of its sheath is not a great idea when you're talking to a politician," Nathan said quickly. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Hiro and Ando looked sorrowfully at each other. "We are..." Hiro pondered the proper wording.

"Homeless," Ando said helpfully. "Also broke."

"I see."

"We left our Versa in Las Vegas."

"That's a shame."

"We sink you give us a place to stay," Hiro said, smiling. "Brozerhood of heroes! Please?"

"Ah...I'm all out of...justice...league...fortresses at the moment," Nathan said. "But I think I can help you out."

Hiro beamed.

"You know how in...movies, heroes have alter egos?" Nathan said.

"Clark Kent! Bruce Wayne!"

"Yeah, exactly. Well, my alter ego is Congressional Candidate Petrelli, and I kinda need to be him a lot right now. So I'm going to give you two alter egos as temporary staff members, and that way you can earn enough to get a hotel room. Week's advance. How about it?"

"VOTE PETRELLI!" Hiro shouted. Nathan was just a little bit pleased that most of the people in the room, on hearing it, echoed back with a cheer.

"Just keep it down about the flying, okay?" he said.

***

PETER PETRELLI - NYC

"But can you fix it?" Peter asked.

The guy at Geek Squad gave him a narrow look. "Listen, I'm not the one who drop-kicked their laptop."

"Neither did I! I just need some information that's on there," Peter said, gesturing at the mess of wires and plastic bits that had once been Mohinder's computer. "Anything you can offload. Anything at all."

The man pushed a button on the keyboard next to him. Something went _whirr._

"I can save certain sectors of the disk. I can't guarantee that what I save won't be your buddy's extensive collection of Star Trek fanfiction," he answered.

"Whatever you can get," Peter said.

He watched, perplexed, as the man fiddled with wires and punched commands into his keyboard. He took a cheap flash drive, shoved it into a port, and frowned at the screen.

"Weird," he said.

"What?" Peter asked sharply.

"Looks like the dude was doing some serious pirating when whatever happened...happened. He had like eight downloads going."

"From where?"

The man squinted. "I can save the partial files. Maybe not pirating, most of them are HTML and PDF, looks like. Lot of medical databases."

Peter watched as he began opening files and typing in more commands. Lists of names...new lists of names. He saw his own name flicker by, and then an actual photograph of Nathan.

Mohinder was making a list. A list of people like him.

No wonder Sylar had been torturing him.

"Hey," he said casually, "What happens with the parts after you get everything off? I mean, do you buy them, or what?"

"Buy this crap? You can give it to us and we'll recycle it, or you can get it back. Everything from the hard drive'll go on CD-ROM or you can buy the flash drive."

An hour and a half later, with the portable drive in his pocket and a considerably lighter wallet, Peter stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused thoughtfully. He took the old hard drive out of his pocket, set it down, and stomped on it a couple of times. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Then he gathered up the pieces, threw half of them into a trash can, and dropped the rest down the first open sewer grate he came to.

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TX

Parkman told Bennett not to talk, and Bennett must have got the message; he could feel silent expectation, and then a question.

_Can you hear me? Can you talk back?_

Matt frowned down at his hands. _I think so,_ he thought, and then he pushed.

 _I heard that,_ Bennett said, surprised. _Where are you?_

_Next cell over._

_How much do you know?_

_Why you're locked up,_ Parkman said. _What happened in New York._ Then he paused. _I'm sorry about your family._

There was an anguished noise from the other room, audible, as Bennett replied. _Claire's still alive. She has to be. I have to get to her._

Well, it was as good a motivation as any for escape.

_Parkman?_

_Just thinking,_ Matt replied. Each time it got easier. Each time he was more confident that his words were getting through. _There has to be a way out. Some kind of trap door built into the system._

 _There's one,_ Bennett answered. _But it's not exactly pleasant._

***

JACK BAKER - SOMEWHERE IN UTAH

Jack stopped at a diner for dinner, and also to buy a map. The Versa had some kick, he'd say that for Nissan, and he couldn't keep driving forever without at least anticipating what was to come. His instincts had taken him this far, but he wasn't sure how long this whole spirit-guide thing would last.

"Where you goin', hon?" the waitress asked, pouring him a cup of coffee.

"New York City," he answered politely. "I'm on a quest."

"Oh yeah? What's in New York City?"

"Two Japanese guys I need to find," he answered.

"This isn't some kinky internet thing, is it?"

"No ma'am. I have their car, that's all."

She smiled, left the coffee pot with him, and moved on. Jack decided it was time to review the day's catch.

The airplane to Vegas had yielded two pens, fifteen dollars, three hair clips, and a Sylar-brand watch. The parking garage alone had given up enough money to pay for the Versa's long-term parking, and after he told the parking dude precisely where the Versa was and what was in it, the dude had given him the key, no problem-o. He'd found the other suitcase that belonged in the Versa and taken off east. He'd stopped three times on the drive to take his bearings, and found two awesome cow skulls.

He hoped his parents weren't worrying. Jack had decided that going on walkabout, even if it was driveabout, meant he probably shouldn't keep his cellphone on. He had it, because he wasn't an idiot, but it was switched off. It probably interfered with all the psychic vibrations or something. They shouldn't worry too much, his letter had been pretty clear. _Dear Parents, I'm going on walkabout. Don't worry, I have money and I packed a sandwich. Love, Jack._

Jack knew that someone needed this car, and probably all the shit in the backseat. The luggage tags were in Japanese, which was how he knew the dudes he was going to find were probably Japanese. He didn't know how he knew they were in New York, but they were. So, if the Japanese dudes wouldn't come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the Japanese dudes.

He figured, what with the road work going on in Kansas, it'd be smarter to aim north and bypass it entirely. There was an awesome themed hotel in Iowa he could sleep at tomorrow night, if he wanted. He planned to be in New York City by sundown, day after tomorrow. He had another good eight hours of driving time if he stopped and slept from midnight to six.

His fingers, almost unconsciously, dug into the gap between the booth's seat and the wall. They came up with a box of crayons.

The ways of the universe were wonderful and strange. Jack had turned himself over to his spirit walk, and the gods had sent him crayons. That was pretty awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN 

***

PETER, HIRO, AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

"PETER PETRELLI!"

Peter, who was headed for Nathan's office and in a hurry to catch him before he left for the day, nearly bumped into Ando, who were handing out flyers outside the door. There was another Japanese man with him, whom Peter half-recognised as the man from the subway. 

Hiro Nakamura. 

"Vote Petrelli," Hiro said, smiling at a pretty redheaded woman as she took one of his handbills. "Vote for Nasan Petrelli!"

Ando grabbed the other man's sleeve and dragged him forward until both of them were standing in front of Peter. 

"Peter Petrelli," Ando said to Hiro, who bowed. Peter bowed back. Then, inexplicably, Hiro darted forward and hugged him, trapping Peter's arms against his sides. Peter raised an eyebrow at Ando, who helped disentangle them.

"I am glad to see you," Hiro said, beaming.

"I see that...uh, me too. What're you guys doing here?" he asked, confused. The last time he'd seen Ando, they were in Texas, in a little diner outside of the Midland airport. "Is that a -- "

"It is the sword of Kensei," Hiro said gravely, touching the strap that held the sword on. "We stole it."

"Awesome," Peter said. "Can I see?"

"Nasan Petrelli says I am not to show it off in public," Hiro recited. Peter covered his mouth, trying not to grin.

"What the hell are you doing campaigning for my brother?" he asked.

"We believe he is the man for the job," Ando replied. Peter was pretty sure the two men were making fun of him, just a little.

"You're volunteering?"

"No no, he hires us," Hiro said. "We are homeless!"

Peter rubbed the back of his head, then pulled them aside, out of the crowds. "Nathan hired you."

"Yes," Ando said.

"My brother, Nathan, hired you to hand out flyers."

"Brozerhood of heroes," Hiro replied. 

"Ah, yeah, okay. So -- you work for the family now," Peter said, formulating a plan. "Listen, you know me and Nathan, we're like this," he said, holding up crossed fingers. "I need your help. Something much more important than flyers. Big chance to be a real hero."

Hiro's eyes widened. "What is it?"

"I need you to guard someone for me."

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS

 _There's no other way,_ Bennett said, after Matt had been silent for about forty minutes. 

_Funny how you keep saying that,_ Matt replied. _Seems like I hear that every time you want to do something your way._

A hint of impatience tinged Bennett's tone. _I know this place, I've worked here for years. You have to trust me._

 _Maybe they're trying to get us to work together, you ever think of that?_ Matt asked. _Maybe they're waiting for us to try to escape. They put us together, in the first two empty cells --_

 _As per standard Company procedure,_ Bennett retorted. 

_I don't want to die in Texas,_ Matt said. 

_Oh, what they're going to do to us is much worse than dying,_ Bennett said. _Me because I betrayed the company. You because you're different. They'll want to know what makes you tick._

Matt sat in silence for another ten minutes.

 _You're sure it'll work?_ he asked.

 _No. If you wanted guarantees, you should have stayed in Los Angeles,_ Bennett replied. 

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC

"Nathan? You're quiet tonight."

Nathan looked up and smiled at his wife, trying to be reassuring. He was a good liar, but it was hard with Heidi. She didn't really want anything except honesty, and since the accident...

"Lot on my mind," he said, taking another bite of salad.

"Your meeting with Linderman?" Heidi asked. "Sweetie, stab your peas, don't scoop them."

The last was directed at their older son, who grinned at his parents and went right on shoving peas onto a spoon with his finger. 

"Couple of meetings lately, yeah," Nathan murmured. 

"Anything you want to talk about?" Heidi asked. Nathan studied his sons, thinking. 

It occurred to him that if his daughter was like Peter -- like him -- then his sons might be also. Claire had said some very enlightening things about her birth-mother, among them the fact that of Nathan's hundred thousand, only twenty-five was promised to his actual blood relation. She'd also said her mother could start fires, which made a few odd incidents in Nathan's early life make much more sense. As far as he knew, Heidi couldn't fly or set things on fire or talk to animals or whatever, but then would she tell him if she could?

His sons were charming children, bright and rambunctious, ordinary and perhaps just a little bit vicious, like he was. He had thought when he had a second son that he would see himself and Peter all over again, but the quiet strangeness that Peter had possessed as a child was nowhere to be found in Nathan Petrelli's sons. 

He sensed it in Claire, though. Not the quiet, perhaps. She wasn't very quiet. But that alien self-containment, the disinterest in -- in power, in playing the goddamn game -- all the things that had perplexed Nathan about Peter were present in Claire, and he began to realise that perhaps to Heidi and his sons and his mother he seemed like an alien too. Would his boys turn that way, if they turned out to be special too? Would he spend the rest of his life watching and worrying that they would?

Was he just slightly disappointed that he didn't see it in them now?

"Honey?"

Nathan looked away from the boys. "Sorry, what?"

Heidi laughed. "I asked if there was anything you wanted to talk about."

"I think I'm tired," he said.

"I'm not surprised."

"You know what I'd really like?" he said suddenly, setting down his fork.

"What's that?" Heidi asked, looking slightly anxious.

"I'd like to play legos with the boys. You too, we'll get out that huge chest of legos from when Peter and I were kids and dump it out on the table and build something huge," he said. "What do you say, boys?"

His sons cheered, flinging peas about in the process, and when Nathan looked at Heidi she was -- smiling. The smile he'd spent months pining after in law school, the real Heidi smile. Not a trace of accusation or disappointment. 

As if he'd done something she'd been hoping for. Something right, for once.

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC

"So this...Suresh," Claire said, around a mouthful of pizza. "He knows why we're like this? Different?"

"More than that," Peter replied, sketching figures in the air with a bit of crust. He'd picked up a pizza on his way to the safe-house, reckoning that Nathan had probably not had the presence of mind to think about things like dinner. Turned out he was right; there was food in the kitchen, but nobody had bothered to sit Claire down and tell her to eat. Once he did, she'd eaten like half the pizza, which just went to show she really was a Petrelli. 

"He did something, or maybe his dad did," Peter said, sipping his beer. Claire toyed with the bottle of Coke he'd brought her. "His dad wrote a whole book about it, about how evolution might be responsible -- "

" _Activating Evolution_?" Claire asked suddenly. Peter stared at her.

"How did you know that?"

"A...friend of mine gave me a copy," she said. 

"So you've read it?"

"Yeah -- I didn't look at the author..."

"That's Mohinder's dad. Anyway, before Sylar got to him, he was working on a way to help us." Peter lowered his voice, glancing at the doorway. Nathan's cop friend had left a two-man security detail, one on the front door of the apartment and one in a car downstairs. Peter didn't like having someone else around, and anyway it wouldn't stop Sylar if he found them, but he didn't want to have another fight with Nathan right now. He slid around the table until the kitchen counter blocked their guard's view, then reached into his coat pocket and took out the flash drive, setting it on the table.

"That's all the information from his laptop, all they could recover," he said softly. "I think that's what Sylar was after."

Claire touched the drive as if she thought it might explode. "What is it?"

"I haven't looked yet," Peter replied. "Part of it's a list, a list of people like us. I don't know what's safe to open. I'm going to take it to the public library tomorrow, open it there. That way we only fry government property if something goes wrong," he added with a grin.

Claire looked at him with a peculiar expression that he couldn't place; she did have a sweet smile. 

"What do I do? Hide out here?" she asked, turning away. Peter reached across the table for his beer and took another sip, contemplating whether he wanted the last slice of pizza or not.

"I guess so. I talked to the guys, I can come and go, but Nathan thinks you should stay. Listen, if you need anything, I can get it tomorrow..."

"Not much," she shrugged. "Hairbrush would be nice."

He grinned. "Sure thing. Are you, like...okay with all this?"

"Haven't got a choice. I mean, I had to leave Texas. And at least I'm here with you, you know? Instead of in Brazil or something."

"Brazil could be nice," Peter said absently. 

***

SYLAR - NYC

It had taken longer than Sylar thought it would to find Suresh. It was hard to get information out of people when you couldn't just threaten to kill them. He'd finally taken to posing as Mohinder's brother, which was a long shot, but eventually it worked. By the time night fell, he had a hospital and a room number, which meant he had a target.

It was after visiting hours, but if you walked into a hospital looking like you knew what you were doing, people often didn't bother trying to stop you. He could hear the buzz and clatter of security radios on Suresh's floor, but if he took them one at a time he could probably work his way down to his goal. It would take time, but Sylar had time. Besides, he didn't want to kill Suresh; he wanted some quality time with him. He wanted the list. 

As he listened, crouched in the stairwell, he heard something else, too. Two men, speaking some foreign language -- sounded like Chinese or something. 

He opened the stairwell door a crack and peered through. There they were, two Asian guys, standing outside the room he wanted into. One of them had a _sword._

A sword? Seriously?

He weighed his rage at Suresh against his natural sense of caution. A guy with a sword meant that someone else was watching over Suresh -- Petrelli, or the man who'd come to Petrelli's rescue. Which might, in fact, mean that these two men were special also. And that meant they were _prey._

Sylar smiled. 

***

NATHAN AND HEIDI PETRELLI - NYC

Nathan's fingertips were sore and three of his fingernails were broken from those damn Legos, but the boys had gone to bed quietly and now he lay in bed with Heidi, one arm across her hip, his face pressed into her sweet-smelling hair. 

"Nathan," she said quietly, as he was drifting off to sleep.

"Mmmh?" he asked.

"You know I love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too," he mumbled.

"And I'll love you whether you win or not."

"Mmhm."

"I wonder if you do know that," she whispered, but Nathan -- who would have liked to reply -- was sinking too quickly into sleep to answer her. 

***

_All across the city, they sleep. As darkness spreads westward, they sleep -- so many thousands, millions of people. Some are awake, wandering in the cold and dark, some drink in the bars, some work in the offices, but mostly they sleep. They dream._

_So many dreams._

_Claire dreams of the airplane, dreams she is back on the airplane, flying to New York alone, looking for Peter. Peter himself, restless and uneasy, dreams of Sylar and wakes frequently to check the locks on the windows, on the doors._

_Micah dreams of Uluru, the monster from his comic books, and wakes to crawl into the hotel-room bed between his parents. Sleepy, his mother cradles his head against her hip._

_When he sleeps, Jack will dream of the Ouroboros incomplete, the self-devouring snake unwinding into a strange and sinuous curve, its stripes an oddly familiar pattern. Isaac, though he does not sleep, will see it also._

_In his dreams Nathan is making love to Heidi, her bare skin perfect and unblemished, still sensitive under his touch, and soon he will wake to slip away without rousing her._

_There are children in Matt's dreams, children he must protect and can't, because they've taken away his badge. No matter how hard he looks, he can't find it._

_Mohinder Suresh -- perhaps it is best not to inquire too closely into what he dreams, or whether he is still capable._

_Curled on a padded pallet in an abandoned building, in a dark corner made personal only by books on a haphazard shelf and a table covered in odds and ends stolen like a magpie, a man who used to have a name dreams of history._

***

CLAUDE RAINS AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS  
TEN YEARS AGO

"Don' touch it!" Claude says, laughing and shoving wee Lyle away gently. "It's hot!"

"Hot! Don't touch it!" Lyle repeats solemnly to Claire. 

"Where do the fries go?" Claire asks, peering at the large, gleaming white machine on the patio table. 

"Not fries. Chips," Claude corrects.

"Those are fries," Claire insists. 

"Not where I'm from."

"Then what do they call chips where you're from?"

"Crisps," Claude replies, chopping up the fish into strips, sliding the knife effortlessly through the filleted flesh to make them extra-thin, fast-cooking. It's hard to get good quality fish in West Texas, but Claude has his ways. 

"Are they pesterin' you?" Mrs. Bennett calls, seated nearby on the bench-swing. It is spring in Odessa, and the truly horrifying heat of summer has yet to set in. Besides, it's better to fry fish outside; doesn't make the house smell. The sun is setting low over the flat green hills, turning the light soft and golden. 

"I'm not fussed," Claude answers, lifting the fish off the chopping board and dredging them in flour before dropping them into the bowl of batter. He winks at Claire. "Awfully nosy, they are."

"It's just so sweet, you cookin' for us," Mrs. Bennett continues, sipping an iced tea. "We about never use the fryer, even for french fries."

So many words he had to get used to, in America; fries for chips, chips for crisps, and all those missing letters in the spelling. Claude still turns in his reports with colour, kerb, and paediatrician. He's still trying to explain the difference between Jam and Jelly to Bennett, as well. 

"S'my pleasure," he answers Mrs. Bennett, and it is. Claude doesn't have any family, at least not any he'd admit to, and he's a long way from home. Mrs. Bennett is kind to a stranger in a strange land. 

He'll always be a stranger, no matter how long he lives in America. That's just the way life is.

"Can I drop one in?" Claire asks. 

"Nope," Claude says cheerfully, cutting open the bag of frozen chips. Fries. Whatever. "Too dangerous, lit'le one."

Claire looks disappointed, peering into the bowl of batter while Claude pours the chips into one of the baskets. Bennett, like a good Texan, has a double-pot frydaddy, which is a long stride from the saucepan of chip-oil that Claude is used to. Still, fish and chips is fish and chips, no matter how fancy your machinery is. 

"Tell you what," Claude says, "If you're very careful I'll lift you up and you can put just one in, right?"

Claire gasps excitedly. 

"But I want you to watch first and see what happens when the chips go in," he adds, holding up the first basket. She nods and watches from a safe distance as he lowers the basket into the hot oil. It sputters and spits and bubbles before he slams the lid down. Both Claire and Lyle have eyes like saucers. 

"Still want to try?" he asks, grinning wickedly at Claire, expecting her to squeak and run off. Instead she grins back and nods, smoothing out her shirt nervously with her hands. "Right then..."

He sets the empty second basket in the oil and dumps the mess of battered fish out onto a plate. "Lift it up by one end and lower it in slowly, then let go when I say," he says, picking her up around the waist and standing her on the bench in front of the table. He holds tightly to her waist, knowing that if Claire gets burned, Mrs. Bennett will gut him and use his bollocks for earrings. 

He hands her one fillet by an edge, holding her small fingers in his as she lowers it. She flinches when the oil begins to bubble and foam, but when he squeezes her wrist she drops it and watches in fascination as it begins to fry. Claude, without letting her go, slides the rest of the battered fish into the basket and closes the lid.

"Daddy!" Claire calls. "I did it!"

"Did what, sweetie?" Bennett calls, without looking up from his book. Claude sighs, just a little.

"I fried a fish!"

"That's nice, Claire-bear."

Claude can feel Claire's disappointment, and not simply because he's been working with a telepath. She looks down at the fryer to hide it, even as Lyle runs off to pester his mother.

"That was fantastic," he tells her, picking her up again and setting her on the ground. "Now, go get your uncle Claude a drink."

Claire laughs -- children are so easily restored -- and runs to the cooler, picking out a cola for herself and dutifully bringing him a bottle of beer. Claude settles into a chair next to Bennett, stretching his legs and relaxing. Cutie-Pie, Mrs. Bennett's latest show Pomeranian, nips his fingers where they hang down past the armrest of the chair. 

He understands better now how Bennett differentiates himself from the job. Here, in this grassy yard, with this well-kept house, two beautiful children and an affectionate wife, Bennett lives in another world. How difficult can it be to forget what you've seen and done, when this is waiting for you when you leave work every day? 

Claude doesn't know which way is better, his or Bennett's. He knows that he can't live his way forever, but he doesn't think he can bury it in a family and a pretty house like Bennett does, either.

Still, for tonight -- with Claire and Lyle chasing ladybugs in the grass, Cutie-Pie chasing Claire and Lyle, the Bennetts chatting idly about the weather -- Claude is content. 

He will wake up in a few minutes, in the darkness of the New York City warehouse, in the life he chose when he could have had that golden-green yard in Odessa. And when he wakes, the smell of cut grass and frying fish still in his nostrils, his consolations will be that Peter needs him, and Claire found him -- doesn't matter that she doesn't know him. Claire is here, and she needs him too. 

He still won't know which he would choose, the dream to cover the guilt or the clean-conscienced nightmare, but he will know which one he _did_ choose. Claire, Peter and his oiksome older brother, even the Haitian...they aren't too bad, as consolations go. 

***

_Ando and Hiro, true to the duties, do not sleep. They stand watch._

***

SYLAR, ANDO, HIRO, AND MOHINDER - NYC

Ando and Hiro became friends because they always had something to talk about, even when they were ordinary. After coming to America they had a secret together, that neither of them were ordinary, and sometimes they didn't even need to talk at all. They still did, though, all the time, even when it was something stupid like the old argument about whether Spiderman or Wolverine would win the Tokyo Marathon. Lately they'd branched out into who would score higher in an olympic gymnastics competition.

Well, just arguing about who would win in a flat-out bareknuckle fight was boring.

As the orderly came in to fiddle with Mohinder's machines, Hiro was explaining in detail just why it was illegal for Wolverine to use his blades while Spiderman could use his webbing. He turned automatically to watch the orderly through the doorway window, and when the man pulled the curtains tight around the bed in the semiprivate room he frowned.

"Why'd he do that?" he asked Ando, pointing. Ando cocked his head and peered through the window.

"Spongebath?" he asked.

"At ten o'clock at night?" Hiro said. He pushed the door open, putting his head inside.

" _Hello?_ " he called. " _Is Mr. Mohinder o-kay?_ "

The man behind the curtain kept moving. Ando touched Hiro's shoulder, then pushed past him into the room.

" _What are you doing to Mr. Mohinder?_ " he asked. 

No answer. Ando pulled the curtain back.

The orderly, a dark-haired, dark-browed man, looked up at him and smiled. 

The door slammed shut and the lock clicked, barricading Hiro outside. Ando flinched. 

" _I was just curious what was in that head of his,_ " the man said in a low, smug voice. " _Literally._ "

"Sylar," Ando breathed.

" _I'd be just as happy to look into yours,_ " Sylar said. Ando reached for the pistol still in his pocket, but his hand wouldn't move past the grip. Sylar circled him. Ando heard Hiro banging on the door. 

" _I wonder how you're special,_ " Sylar murmured. " _Are you on the list?_ "

Ando was becoming used to Hiro's abilities and he actually noticed the blip -- the odd, off-centre jerk in his vision -- that signalled a stop in time. His heart rate slowed, and he relaxed his arm. The banging on the door stopped immediately. 

" _Won't it taste good?_ " Sylar added, and went to move a step forward. 

And fell.

Ando saw Hiro in the room, behind the curtain, out of the corner of his eye. The sword of Kensei was drawn, and in his other hand was Ando's pistol. 

"The safety's still on," Ando said. He was still looking at the gun when he saw the safety flick off. Hiro's other hand had moved slightly. This _was_ useful.

"I tied his shoelaces. Very effective," Hiro replied. Ando was opening his mouth to say that Sylar wouldn't stay down for long when the man at their feet shot upright. Hiro fired the gun and both men saw the bullet stop in front of Sylar's nose. Hiro fired again and this one hit him, but he shoved Ando backwards into the wall (without even touching him) so hard that Ando saw stars. Hiro's gun hand lifted to his own head. 

Ando watched as Hiro brought the sword around and pressed it to the side of Sylar's throat. 

" _You do not control the sword of Kensei,_ " Hiro said. " _If I fire, you will die when I do._ "

The tableau they made was strange -- Hiro with the gun pressed to his own head, Sylar with the long, sharp blade of the sword sliding down his throat. Ando tried to get up, staggered, and fell again.

" _You can leave,_ " Hiro continued. " _And I will let you live. For now._ "

Sylar licked his lips. His eyes darted towards the door. Hiro shifted his grip, and the sword ran sharp along the skin on the other side of Sylar's neck. It didn't quite draw blood. 

The dark-haired man bolted, and Hiro lifted the gun just in time for it to fire into the ceiling, sparking off a metal strut and knocking plaster all over. There was a crash of glass as Sylar went through the window. And -- 

And _flew away._

Hiro helped Ando up, supporting him when the world dipped and spun.

"That man is evil," Hiro said. "We looked at pure evil."

"And you tied his shoelaces together," Ando said. He looked around, feeling a little steadier on his feet. The plaster that had fallen from the ceiling was nowhere to be found; the smell of gunpowder had cleared from the air. He didn't know why Hiro would bother, until a nurse burst into the room. 

" _Did you fire a_ gun?" she demanded, looking wildly around the room.

" _No no. Bad man come in,_ " Hiro said. Ando could hear him intentionally breaking up his English. " _He jump out window! Crazy man! Velly bad man!_ "

Ando wept mentally for the dignity of his race.

" _He went out the window_?" she asked, horrified. She ran for the nurse's station and began dialling the phone, frantically.

"We should go," Hiro said under his breath, sheathing his sword. Ando wasn't sure what had become of the pistol, and didn't think he should ask. The plaster was gone, but the dent in the ceiling wasn't. "The police will come."

"What about Mr. Mohinder?" Ando asked. They both turned to look at him, still peacefully unconscious on the bed. Hiro got a set, stubborn look on his face. He followed as Hiro stalked stiffly to the nurse's station.

" _Secure floor!_ " he said, glaring at the nurse. " _Mr. Mohinder very safe! Hah! Some secure floor!_ "

" _I -- I'm sorry, Mr. Naga --_ "

" _Nakamura!_ " Hiro shouted. " _This is not safe! You will put him somewhere safe! New name! Fake name! Different hospital! You will do it right now!_ "

" _We can't --_ "

" _You will do this! He is friend of Peter Petrelli! He is friend of Nasan Petrelli! You know Nasan Petrelli?_ " Hiro asked, menacingly.

" _Y -- yes of course..._ "

" _Now!_ "

The police appeared then, and Ando watched in total admiration as Hiro pestered, berated, and shouted them into submission. By the time he stopped talking, Mohinder was already being wheeled to the back door, where an ambulance was going to take Melvin Smith to a different hospital. 

"Should have done this at the start," Hiro grumbled, watching the ambulance pull away. 

"How did you do that?" Ando asked.

"I just asked myself what father would do," Hiro replied. "Then I did it louder."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN


	5. Chapter 5

CLAIRE BENNETT AND PETER PETRELLI - NYC

Morning dawned bright and clear and sharp-edged on New York City, and Claire was there to see it.

She sat at the window in the little bedroom, looking out. She couldn't see a whole lot, not from the fifth floor, but she could see enough. People wandering out of their apartments and down to the street, buying coffee and doughnuts from the cafe, walking their dogs. It was like Odessa, really -- it was just squeezed up a little. Lots _more_ Odessa, squashed into the same amount of space.

That was what she tried to tell herself, anyway. 

"Country mouse comes to visit her big city cousins," she said to herself, amused. Well, not cousins. Better -- two brothers. Real brothers. Not...not like that, of course Lyle was her real brother, but he wasn't her blood and ever since Dad told her she was adopted, Lyle had been all weird about it. Never where Mom and Dad could see, but his freakout last month over what she was, that was just part of it. 

She had brothers. Two baby brothers. She had no clue when she'd get to meet them, but they were there. And a stepmom, too. A stepmom who probably wasn't going to be happy to learn she existed. 

And her uncle. 

She heard a cellphone ringtone -- Fall Out Boy, he was _just_ like Zach -- and Peter's sleepy voice answering it. 

"You _what?_...I _am_ calm!"

Peter opened the door of the bedroom across the hall from hers, appearing in the early morning half-light. His hair stuck up in tufts, and he was only wearing pyjama pants. 

Uncle Peter must work out.

This was _so_ not fair.

"Okay. Sure. Okay." Peter rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He winked at Claire. She smiled back. "Right. No, lemme get a pen...a pen. Just -- hang on."

He ambled into the kitchen and she could hear him talking while he wrote something down. She went to the doorway, wondering if Peter was a coffee-and-doughnuts sort, or a waffles kind of guy. 

"Sure. No, you did great. Tell Hiro. Get some sleep. Good idea."

Peter hung up the phone and bit the end of the pen, considering what he'd just written down.

"Anyone I know?" Claire asked, trying to be funny. He grinned.

"You will, pretty soon. They were keeping an eye on Mohinder for me. Sylar tried to get to him last night."

Claire stared in horror.

"They sent him packing. Turns out Hiro's got a few tricks up his sleeve. Mohinder's safe, the hospital'll call if he wakes up." Peter rubbed a hand across his face. "You want the shower first?"

"No, you go ahead," Claire said. 

"Sure. Hey, you know, I was thinking," Peter added, hesitating in the bathroom doorway. "You're still in high school. We gotta get you some books or something. I'll ask Ma, she'll know what to do."

"Kinda nice, having a break," she said.

"Yeah, I hated school. So -- I'm gonna get a shower, fix yourself some breakfast if you want," Peter said. He disappeared into the bathroom, and after a minute she heard the pipes clatter as the shower was turned on.

She pursed her lips. 

Surely this place had a waffle iron somewhere.

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

JESSICA SANDERS - NYC

When she walked into the dockyard, all the men stopped working.

Jessica smiled as she passed, winking at the ones who wolf-whistled her. DL and Micah were going to the Statue of Liberty today, and she was having her own maritime adventures. She passed the trucks, the stacked boxes, the heavy-lifting cranes, the heavy-lifting men...

The loading door to one of the nearby warehouses was open, and a handful of burly men were eating breakfast, examining lading bills and shipping documents. Two of them reached for their guns when they saw her. 

"Easy, boys," she said, giving them a sunny, seductive smile. "I'm here to see your daddy."

A slim, elderly man stood and beckoned her closer. She leaned against the table, edging one of the bodyguards out of the way.

"You from Linderman?" the man asked. 

"You can call me Jessica," she answered. He put a pistol in her hands, as well as an envelope of cash. 

"Tell Linderman we're square," he said.

"Mmm...no, I don't think you are just yet," she answered. He narrowed his eyes. "How many unions do you have under your thumb?"

"What's that matter to Linderman?"

"Who's the Union candidate in the race?"

"Davidson," one of the others grunted. "Union man from way back."

"Not anymore," Jessica said with a smile. "Now your union man is Nathan Petrelli."

"That little pissant?" the elderly man asked. 

"Do you, or do you not, want to be square with Linderman?" Jessica inquired. She fondled the barrel of the gun. 

"Gentlemen, I'd like a word in private with Mr. Linderman's representative," the boss said. The others faded into the background. "I can't tell the unions to vote Petrelli."

"Why not?"

"Because our union guy's always been Davidson. He's been good to us."

"I can make sure Petrelli's good to you too," she said. "Very good."

She put the pistol into the purse she was carrying. The boss studied her.

"Listen, you keep an eye on Nathan Petrelli for the next few days," she said. "You watch for him to make a speech about union rights and values. When he does, I want you to tell your people that you think Nathan Petrelli is just what this city needs. I know you can make this happen for me."

"But then we're square."

"Mr. Linderman says when you're square," she replied, wondering just what Linderman had on this guy to make him so desperate. 

"I'll be waiting on that speech," he said reluctantly.

"You do that, honey," she answered, and went to make a few more calls.

***

THE HAITIAN - NOGALES, ARIZONA

The Haitian didn't like Odessa. He never really had, but he traveled a lot with Bennett, so he put up with it. 

He hated Nogales even more. Still, he'd hated a lot of things in life and Nogales wasn't so bad. It was better than his last trip to New York when he'd had to intentionally botch the job of bringing in Peter and the professor. He hated seeming incompetent most of all.

He'd found the bar where the border guards drank and managed to blend in, hanging around in a back booth. Sifting through memories was much harder than removing them, but he was managing. It had been a long shot, looking for the face of one woman he didn't know in the hundreds that had come across the border in the last few days, but he'd found a few likely candidates. If any of the blonde women were telling the truth, then his first stop on the other side of the border should be La Paz.

Packed and ready to go, he stopped outside the motel's small, shabby office and made a phone call.

"Petrelli residence," came the maid's answer.

"Mrs. Angela Petrelli," he replied. There was a pause, and then her voice on the line. 

"This is Mrs. Petrelli."

"I am in Nogales," he said. "I may have found her."

"That's wonderful," Mrs. Petrelli said, her voice falsely cheerful. Someone must be listening. "How are you, my dear?"

"I have enough money," he replied. "I will go first to La Paz, then to Huatuleco. When I find her, I will contact you."

"I hear it's lovely this time of year," she said. "But darling, don't drink the water."

"I won't act without orders," he confirmed. "Do not expect to hear from me again for a few days."

"Lovely. Well, I'll look forward to your call. Ta-ta, now," she said, and the line went dead.

The Haitian picked up his bag and shouldered it, checking one last time for his bus ticket to Hermosillo. 

When his Company recruiter had promised him a lifetime of adventure and travel in exchange for his services, somehow this wasn't what he had pictured.

***

ANGELA AND NATHAN PETRELLI - NYC

The Haitian didn't see, of course, who was with Angela Petrelli when she took the phone call. He didn't see her carefully keep her face blank as she hung up, or turn back to the person she'd been speaking to when the telephone interrupted.

"Who was that?" Nathan asked, sitting at the other end of the table.

"Just a friend," she replied. "Now, what was so important you interrupted your morning to speak to me about it?"

"I think it's time, Ma," Nathan said, leaning his elbows on the table. "I think you need to tell me about Dad's suicide."

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Claire made _waffles._ Peter could get used to that.

He'd planned to pick up some stuff for Claire, then swing by his mother's house and ask what she thought they should do about the whole high school situation. He knew what Ma would probably say, that they should get Claire a private tutor like she'd tried to do for him when he failed Social Studies. Peter wasn't all that happy about the idea, but Claire was family, and he wanted to do right by her considering how screwed her life had been lately. Besides, looking back, a few more passing grades would have been pretty nice. 

He examined a couple of different hairbrushes -- Jesus, how many different types of hairbrush were there? -- and then tossed some barrettes and hair-bands into the basket too. Girls needed that kind of thing. 

He tried to focus on just how humiliating buying all this was going to be, because it helped him not to think about Simone. Simone probably would have liked Claire. Actually, Simone probably would have said they were all nuts, but she would have been nice to Claire anyway.

He tossed a few magazines into the basket. He couldn't wait to see the cashier's face when she swiped Jane Magazine across the barcode reader. 

Snacks. He should get snacks. And if she was going to be stuck in that dingy little apartment, maybe some videos. Did it have a DVD player? Well, he couldn't buy that, but he could get some DVDs. He wondered what she'd like. 

The cashier did smirk when she rang up his order, and the guy bagging the stuff made a little whipping motion with his hand, apparently assuming that Peter was buying this stuff for a girlfriend. Peter left the store as fast as possible and made for the subway, shoving the magazines deeper into the bag when they poked through the top. 

He hesitated at the entrance, though, realising he wasn't far from the street where he'd run into Claude that first time. 

_If you want to find me, you know where I am._

He realised that he'd disappeared without meaning to; someone nearly knocked him down the subway-entrance stairs. Goddamn Claude. 

He swung around the railing and walked on, scanning the crowd for Claude's long blue jacket. People bumped into him occasionally, but he held tight to his shopping bag and tried to dodge them. 

He did two circuits of the street, but Claude wasn't anywhere to be -- hah -- seen. He was about to give up, since he should go see Ma and he really did need to find out what was on the flash drive that was an oddly heavy weight in his pocket, but someone stretched out a hand and grabbed his elbow. 

He jerked around, reappearing, and found himself face to face with a tall man in a long duster jacket and a large, floppy black hat. The brim of the hat tilted up just enough for Peter to catch a glimpse of Claude's hawk-nose and sharp eyes.

"Wondered when you'd come puppying round here. Done overlookin' the obvious yet?" Claude asked casually. He had a hot dog in one hand. 

"You're visible," Peter said. "What's up with that hat?"

"They're lookin' for an invisible man, they don't look twice at the ones they can see." Claude frowned. "What's wrong wi' my hat?"

"It's just kind of conspicuous."

" _You_ din't notice it," Claude said, around a mouthful of hot dog. "Been watchin' you for the last twenty minutes."

"Why did you want to see me again?" Peter asked. "You told my brother to tell me how to find you."

"You're not done with your schoolin' yet, are you?"

"Why'd you come back for me?"

Claude licked mustard off his thumb and heaved a disappointed sigh. "You're hopeless, is what you are. I can go my merry way if you'd like to blow up New York -- "

Peter grabbed him, physically stopping him from moving. Claude popped the last of the hot dog in his mouth, waiting for whatever Peter had to say. Which Peter wasn't sure about himself.

"You teleported," he said finally. "I saw you do it. And you resisted Sylar."

"Sylar's a terrible name. Sounds like a new brand of synthetic stocking."

"Don't change the subject."

"What's your point, then?" Claude asked. 

"You're not just the invisible man," Peter said, frustrated. 

Claude shrugged. "I never said I was _just_ the invisible man."

"You're like me. Aren't you?" Peter asked. "You can do what I can do. You're an Empath."

"Keep your bloody voice down."

"Are there others?"

"I think we'd be safe in saying that Sylar bastard's probably one, in his own twisted way," Claude replied. 

"Why didn't you tell me you were like me?" Peter asked. He heard a note of desperation creep into his voice, and he bit down hard on it. 

"Wasn't really necessary," Claude answered. "Would it have helped your bleedin' heart to know it?"

"Might have, if I thought you understood what was going on with me," Peter answered.

"I didn't have to understand. You learned just fine not knowing. Now, d'you want to learn more, or d'you want to go on playing _j'accuse_?" 

Peter reached into his pocket and took out the flash drive, holding it under Claude's nose.

"Don't you even care what happened to Mohinder? Don't you care why Sylar was after me?" he asked. Claude studied the little drive.

"What's that, a lighter?" he asked.

"It's a list. A list of people like us. Dozens, maybe hundreds. It's why Sylar was there. Mohinder's in a coma because he wouldn't give this to him."

"And you're carryin' it round New York for any pickpocket to lift."

Peter often had the urge to punch Claude in the face, though he knew he'd probably come out worse if he started anything. He growled. 

"You might not have any responsibilities, but I do. I've got to look after Claire and find out what's on this list and somehow stop New York from blowing up -- "

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't have responsibilities," Claude answered, just as sharply. 

"Then stop playing around with hats and hot dogs and help me!" Peter said. "Give me a straight answer once in a while!"

Claude gave him the coolest, most measuring look he'd ever experienced. 

"There's a condemned factory off West 59th, near the docks," he said. "Bright yellow loading doors. Kemp's Baked Goods. Tonight. Go early; I'll be there by nine."

Peter let him go this time, watching as he disappeared (well, not literally) into the crowd. It didn't strike him until he was almost all the way to his mother's house that Claude had actually admitted he was still in town because of Peter. 

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS

When hell broke loose, Matt nearly went blind.

There were simply so many people, _thinking_ so many things, their thoughts all amplified by adrenaline and panic. He was forced to let Bennett lead him, clutching his head the whole time as they ran through the eerily empty halls. 

Primatech Paper had some very interesting contingency plans for emergencies. Bennett knew them all, and apparently his boss had forgotten just how much Bennett knew. If his boss had even been aware of these things in the first place. 

Out in the fresh air, after miles of subterranean pipe-tunnels, Matt heaved breath after breath of fresh air, trying not to hear Bennett, trying not to hear anyone. He didn't know where they were and didn't care; after the last few minutes, he'd happily go back and spend the rest of his life in the cell if it meant never hearing another voice in his head.

"It's been two hours," Bennett said, and Matt realised he must have said it aloud. Either that or Bennett was still hearing him.

"I think I'm gonna puke," Matt replied.

"Well, do it and get it over with then," Bennett suggested. Matt breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. When the world was steady again, he took a look around.

They were in the middle of nowhere, near a drainage tunnel that ran out under a two-lane road. 

"How many others do you think got free?" he asked.

"Maybe a few. Don't tell me you're upset about that."

"I don't want dangerous people on the loose any more than you do."

"But you don't want Primatech holding them, either," Bennett said. 

"Can we argue ethics later?" Matt asked. "Where the hell are we?"

"Seventeen eighty-eight," Bennett said. 

"What?"

"FTM seventeen eighty-eight." Bennett frowned. "Farm to market road seventeen eighty-eight. Connects to interestate twenty near the airport."

"Farm to market," Matt said. "Jesus, get me out of Texas."

"That's the idea," Bennett said.

"I'm going the hell back to Los Angeles."

Bennett just looked at him.

"What?"

"You're not going back to LA. Not unless you want to end up back at Primatech in a matter of hours," Bennett said. 

"My wife -- "

"Is safer without you there," Bennett said. "Believe me. I know."

Matt fell silent. 

"My wife and son are dead," Bennett continued. "The people I work for want to kill me. My daughter is all I have left. I need to find her."

"Where will you go?"

"New York. There's a man there who can find her," Bennett said. "You can come with me as far as the city, if you want."

"Why would you do that?" Matt asked. "You'd get there faster alone."

"You didn't have to get me out," Bennett replied. "Come on. There's a gas station nearby, we can steal a car."

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS -- NYC

"Nathan!" Peter caught sight of his brother as he was entering and Nathan was leaving, heading out a side hallway to his car. "Hey, Nathan! Wait up!"

Nathan stopped and turned, frowning. "Why aren't you with Claire?"

"Went and bought her some stuff," Peter said, holding up the bag in one hand. "I just wanted to say hi to Ma, then I'm gonna go drop this off and run some errands."

"Listen, I don't think Ma's really in a good mood right now," Nathan said, drawing Peter down the hallway and out of view of the main foyer. "Can it wait?"

"Sure, I guess..."

"I'll give you a lift back to the safe-house, I'm going there now."

"O...kay..." Peter said, following his brother out to the sleek sedan that was waiting for them. The driver held the door for them as they climbed in, Peter passing the bag to Nathan so that he could buckle his seatbelt.

"Light reading?" Nathan asked, holding up one of the magazines.

"It's for Claire. I got her some stuff."

"Sure it is." Nathan dug deeper. "Peter, there's half a dozen hairbrushes in here."

"I didn't know what kind she wanted."

Nathan silently held up a box of tampons. Peter blushed. 

"Girls need girl stuff," he mumbled. Nathan put them back in the bag and set it on the floor of the car. 

"Hey -- Ma said she told you about dad," he said quietly.

"What about him?"

"Dad killing himself."

"Oh," Peter said. "Yeah. Did you know?"

"Not until a few days ago. I got curious. I started looking at things."

"Like what?"

Nathan chewed his lip thoughtfully. "My...daughter," he said, fumbling the words a little, "is like us. You're like me. Claire's mother is too. Suresh said whatever this is, it's in our genes, which means it's probably passed down from parent to child."

Peter stared at him. "You think Dad -- "

"Dad was diagnosed with a mental illness when he was twenty-three. That's not that much younger than you are."

"You think Dad could -- what, read minds? Leap tall buildings in a single bound?" 

"I don't know. Neither does Ma. She says when he was diagnosed he thought he had special powers, but that was years ago and his medical records don't exist anymore. Ma made sure of that."

"Because of your campaign," Peter said.

" _Yes_ , Peter, because it doesn't hurt him and because I need all the help I can get, even now."

"Doesn't exactly help _us_ though, does it?" Peter asked. Nathan rubbed his eyes. 

"I don't think Dad killed himself because he was insane. Maybe he didn't kill himself at all."

"What did Ma say?"

"She's...worried about us. And about Claire. She's not exactly happy with me right now either." Nathan sighed. 

Peter sat quietly for a while, contemplating the idea that his father might have been like he was, like Nathan was. That would make Claire the third generation. 

"I want Hiro and Ando back, by the way," Nathan said, into the silence. "I'm going to send them down to register voters in the Japanese neighborhoods."

"Not everything is about your campaign, Nathan."

Nathan shrugged, but he wouldn't meet Peter's eyes. "It is to me."

***

JACK BAKER - SOUTHERN NEBRASKA

"FREEDOM'S JUST ANOTHER WORD FOR NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE  
NOTHING AIN'T WORTH NOTHING BUT IT'S FREE!"

Jack had the windows down and the radio blasting, and life seemed good. The Versa had satellite, which totally saved Jack's sanity driving through the midwest. He should have made a mix CD before he left but, with like a million channels to choose from, why bother? 

It was pretty swank. Maybe the Japanese dudes were high rollers and there'd be some kind of reward. He knew walkabout wasn't about money, but seriously! A reward!

"FEELIN GOOD WAS EASY LORD WHEN BOBBY SANG THE BLUES  
FEELIN GOOD WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME  
GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME AND MY BOBBY MCGEE!"

He scanned up the channels till he found a rock station with a song just ending. The next song came on and he shouted "YEAH!" and turned it up another few notches on the volume meter. Jack picked up his speed, knowing that the next speed trap wasn't for miles, and sang his heart out. 

_I have run, I have crawled_  
 _I have scaled these city walls_  
 _Only to be with you_  
 _Only to beeeee with you_  
 _But I still haven't found what I'm looking for..._

Jack felt a light shock run up his arms, and the car nearly swerved off the road. He braked slowly and pulled it over, wondering if he'd fallen asleep at the wheel. He didn't feel tired. He hadn't smoked up since he got behind the wheel, because he wasn't a jackass, but he was sorely tempted. His heart was going a mile a minute and the radio was still on. 

_I have spoke with the tongues of angels_  
 _I have held the hand of a devil_  
 _It was warm in the night_  
 _I was cold as a stone_  
 _But I still haven't found what I'm looking for._

Jack wondered, with a small portion of his brain, if he could help Bono out. The rest of his mind was focused on the little static shocks sparking off his skin, and the slideshow playing behind his eyes. Angels and devils and city walls, oh my...

He _saw_ the Japanese men for the first time -- one round-faced and grinning, the other much more dangerous about the eyes. They were waiting for him and didn't even know it. He saw the angel and the devil, too, and the one who was going to carry the cross, and he saw the one he was looking for. Not the Japanese dudes or the dark-haired boy who was looking for his teacher or the little kid or the tormented man pursuing them all. 

Jack closed his eyes and found her. It wasn't even very hard. It was kinda like GoogleEarth, in fact. From where he was he lifted up into the air and fell back to earth in New York City. There she was, sitting with the angel. A yellow-haired girl well out of place but utterly unbreakable -- and her life was only just beginning. 

The girl. The blond girl. 

Jack Baker fell in love. 

*** 

TED SPRAGUE AND HANA GITELMAN - ODESSA, TEXAS

Ted didn't know where he was. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, and he was not entirely certain what his own name was. 

A stinging slap against his face brought the world sharply into focus, and he looked up angrily into a pair of dark, intent eyes. 

"You must wake up, Ted," a voice said, and Ted recognised it -- Hana. 

"If you can walk, you can be free again," she continued. "So you must walk."

Ted tried to sit up, then to stand; he was okay until he got onto his feet, and then he staggered against her. She was surprisingly wiry, and caught him under one arm effortlessly. 

"Where?" he asked, confused.

"Up and out," she replied with a reassuring smile. 

And Ted began to walk. 

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS AND CLAIRE - NYC

Peter was gone longer than Claire thought he would be, and she was almost pacing the floor by the time he returned. He and her father -- Nathan -- her father -- showed up together, and Peter went to the kitchen, abandoning her with his brother. 

"Sleep all right?" Nathan asked, setting his briefcase on the table and sitting down. He gestured her easily into the other chair, eyes never leaving her face. She sat awkwardly, wondering what to say.

"Yeah, I guess," she replied. 

"Good. Got enough food?"

"Yeah," she said, looking down at her hands. "I think Peter bought some stuff, too."

"Glad he's looking after you," Nathan said, looking as if he wasn't exactly glad at all.

"What do I call you?" Claire blurted. He frowned. "I mean, should I say Nathan, or Dad, or what?"

She expected he would probably tell her to say whatever she was most comfortable with, but he didn't. Instead, he seemed to honestly consider it.

"My children call me Dad," he said, finally. "You're my child. I ran off once; I'm not doing that again."

"Okay. Dad," she added. It sounded odd in her mouth, the wrong sort of shape, but it made him smile, which was nice.

"Good. I don't plan on having you stuck here forever, just -- " he hesitated, and Claire saw regret in his eyes. "I have an election."

Claire tried to smile. "Don't want to ruin the election."

"I hoped you'd understand." Nathan touched her hand. "There's a lot I want to ask you. Probably a lot you want to ask me, too."

"Yeah, I just..." Claire ran a hand through her hair. "I can't think of any, is the problem."

Nathan nodded, and the awkward silence lengthened. In the kitchen, Peter crinkled cellophane, putting something away.

"So you're a cheerleader," Nathan said, suddenly.

"Was," Claire replied. "It didn't take."

"Sorry. Are you, uh, a good student?"

"I guess so. B average."

"Only B?" Nathan -- _her father_ \-- asked.

"I didn't do so well in Bio," Claire shrugged. 

"Me neither. And between the two of us, Peter flunked Social Studies," her father grinned. Claire grinned back, glancing at the kitchen door. Her father checked his watch.

"Listen -- you think of what you want to ask me, okay? I've got to get to the office. I don't know when I can come again, probably tomorrow. I'll call tonight if you want."

"I'd like that," Claire said.

"Okay then."

"Can I ask you one thing?" she said, as he stood to leave. He paused, looking down at her.

"Of course."

"You said you can fly."

"Yeah, I try not to talk about that too much."

"When did you do it? How old were you?"

He looked down at her thoughtfully.

"Older than you," he said quietly. "I'll come back. Be good."

He bent over her and before she could flinch back in surprise, he'd kissed her forehead, his cologne filling her nostrils. 

Then he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - SOMEWHERE IN WEST TEXAS

"Did we really have to steal a car?" Matt asked.

"Yes," Bennett answered briefly.

"Yeah, okay, maybe, but the guy's wallet -- "

"We needed cash. We're going to have to buy gas, we're going to have to eat. We can't keep this car forever, either."

Matt sighed and looked down at his hands. A month ago he'd been a policeman, a pillar of the community, a hard working guy having issues with his marriage, just like a million other guys. Now he was a fugitive from a multinational corporation, a fugitive from the law, a felon, a pickpocket, and a _psychic_.

"We're going as far as Austin," Bennett said, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "From there we can get a flight to New York."

"We're just going to steal a plane, huh?" Matt asked.

"I have a contingency plan."

"Guys like you always do."

Bennett frowned. "Yes. We do. There's a safety-deposit box in Austin with false identification and enough cash to get me safely out of the country. I don't think anyone's going to buy that you're my son, but it won't be hard to get you some. I know where to look."

"I need to call my wife."

"The Company will be watching her. You can't risk it," Bennett snapped.

"She's pregnant and she's probably worried sick," Matt said. 

"She's still alive," Bennett replied. 

Matt didn't speak for the rest of the drive to Austin.

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

PETER PETRELLI - NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, MID-MANHATTAN BRANCH

The fourth floor of the New York Public Library was filled with the clattering of keyboards and rustle of newspaper pages. The low noise made Peter nervous, as did the very public location, but he didn't feel safe opening these files anywhere else. 

He sat in front of a computer monitor, feeling the weight of the little flash-drive in his pocket. He touched the mouse, idly making it dart back and forth across the screen. He'd been putting it off all day, but he didn't think he could go see Claude without having at least looked at the information on it. Claude would ask him about it. Well, probably.

He took the drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the port on the side of the monitor, watching as the computer searched for the hardware, found it, installed it, and asked him what he wanted to do. 

Well, here went nothing. 

Peter opened the jump-drive folder and was confronted with a handful of files and dozens of other folders. "Downloads" was one, and that was probably the lists Mohinder was compiling; most of the rest looked like folders that Mohinder had designated himself, which had been downloaded intact from the hard drive.

One folder caught his eye -- _Petrelli._

He blinked and double-clicked, peering at the window that opened up. There were a handful of publicity photos of Nathan, pulled off his website, and one or two photos of Peter that he recognised as images a friend had put up on a Myspace. There was a Word file, too, but when he opened it there was nothing but little white boxes. 

He closed it and scanned more titles, looking for other names, but none of them rang a bell --

_Family Photos._

Peter cocked his head. Whose family?

He opened the folder and was confronted with a series of thumbnail images, some of Mohinder, some of a woman who was clearly his mother. Others showed him holding a young woman around the waist, and there were a few of a grave older man Peter recognised from the back of _Activating Evolution_ : Chandra Suresh. 

This was Mohinder's family. The woman was probably a girlfriend. God, his mother probably didn't know he was in the hospital. And that he might not wake up. 

He shook his head and closed the window, finally opening the Downloads folder. There were five files: two PDF and three HTML. None of them were titled with anything other than serial numbers. 

Each file cut off early, some halfway through a record, but there was enough information in them for Peter to wonder if Claude hadn't been right; this should be locked up somewhere. Just looking at the lists of names, addresses, blood types, spouses, _children_...

He didn't recognise any of the names, except for his own and Nathan's. Most of them were in North America. Some were just names, with the address listed as "unknown". 

There were at least a hundred names, even with only a partial list. Probably _hundreds_ of people like him, potentially like him. 

Peter inhaled sharply, feeling a resistance in his chest, as though his ribcage wasn't quite big enough for his lungs. Suddenly they weren't names, they were people, _his_ people, some family out there that shared something common deep in their DNA. 

He could hear Nathan and Claude laughing at him, but he didn't care. Someone would have to find these people and show them who they were. Maybe it shouldn't be him, but someone should. Someone should tell them they weren't freaks, they weren't alone.

Someone should warn them about Sylar. 

Peter closed the files and pulled the drive out of its port, holding it tightly in his hand. Then he shoved it back in his pocket and left, feeling for it every few minutes until he arrived safely -- invisibly -- at the apartment. 

***

HIRO AND ANDO - NYC

"I have cuts all over my fingers from handbills," Ando complained, sitting on the hotel bed and studying his fingers. Hiro unslung his sword and hung it on one of the hotel-room chairs. "And I think Petrelli is overpaying us."

"We're very valuable," Hiro replied.

"We didn't show up until noon."

"We were guarding Mr. Mohinder," Hiro reminded him. Ando grinned. 

"Yeah, that was pretty cool," he said. "But Hiro..."

"Yes?"

"How long do we stay here?" Ando asked, crossing his legs and turning to look at his friend. "We want to help Peter Petrelli, right? But do we have to stay here until he explodes? I saw the explosion. I don't want to see it again."

Hiro sat on the other bed, fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. They'd have to buy new clothes soon too; they couldn't go on wearing these forever. 

"I think we're waiting," he replied. "For a sign."

"A sign?" Ando asked. Hiro nodded sagely. "How long do we wait?"

Hiro grinned at him. "I have time."

Ando groaned and flopped back on the bed. Hiro laughed.

"Tomorrow we'll go see Mr. Isaac again, maybe," he said. "In the meantime..."

Ando looked at him expectantly. Hiro held up the remote control.

"Free HBO!"

***

JESSICA SANDERS - NYC

"This is Nathan."

Jessica smiled into the telephone. She'd had a very productive day and now she was sitting in a salon, getting a manicure from a woman who only barely spoke English and talking on the telephone with one of the more virile men in New York City.

"Mr. Petrelli?" she asked, trying out her best Niki voice.

"Yes, who's this?" the man on the other end of the line asked.

"It's Niki -- we met in Las Vegas," she said. There was a long silence.

"We did," he said, noncommittally. 

"Listen, I need to talk to you," she continued. "I have some information you should have."

"Well, I'm always available to meet with my constituency," Nathan said. "Especially those with a vested interest in the success of the Petrelli campaign."

"What about the success of a man named Linderman?" she asked. He laughed into the phone.

"Him I can take or leave," he said.

"Then we should meet. When can I see you?"

"Ah, well," he replied, and his voice broke slightly. "How urgent is it?"

"I'm free tomorrow."

"All right. Any idea where?"

She smiled, imagining him setting up a date to meet with a beautiful, sexy blonde in front of half his staff. 

"I have a hotel room," she said. She hoped that, on the other end of the line, his pretty olive skin was blushing. 

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC

"I gotta go out this evening," Peter said, seating himself on the sagging, shabby couch and balancing his dinner plate on one knee. Claire, already sitting on the chair nearby, was wolfing down the rice-a-roni he'd made as if it was the first food she'd seen in a week. "Probably won't be back till late, you shouldn't wait up."

"Guess I can't come with, huh," Claire asked. Peter shook his head. "Where are you going? Hot date?"

Peter laughed. "Not exactly. There's this guy...it's complicated."

"Oh," Claire said, looking disappointed.

"What's oh?" Peter asked, digging into the rice. 

"Oh no -- I mean, it's nothing, I just didn't realise you were gay," she said. 

Peter felt the grains of rice lodge in his windpipe as he inhaled in surprise. He coughed, thumped his chest, and almost spilled his water.

"Are you okay?" she asked, worried. "I don't care, I know I'm from Texas but I swear we're not all bible-waving Republicans -- "

"No," he blurted hoarsely. "Sorry, it's just -- I'm not gay," he said, coughing up another few grains of rice. 

"You aren't?" she asked. 

"No, it's not like that. You know the guy who brought me home?"

"You're not helping your case," she said dryly. He rolled his eyes.

"He's teaching me. I'm -- dangerous...not to you, just, it's -- "

"Complicated," she chimed in when he said the word. He grinned. 

"Anyway, I wanna tell you about that. I think you should know. So -- maybe tomorrow, yeah?"

"Okay," she said. "Can I...help at all?"

He gave her a thoughtful look, then dug in his pocket and pulled out the jump drive. "Take care of that for me, wouldja?"

"Are you sure -- "

"Hey, you're indestructible, right? It should be safe with you," he replied. She gave him a big wide grin. 

 

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - AUSTIN, TEXAS

"Oh, _shit._ "

Bennett looked up from his plate of food -- it couldn't really be called dinner if you weren't eating it, and his appetite was permanently gone. He was trying to focus on Claire, on finding Claire, but the idea that his son was gone forever, that his wife was gone forever...

He shook his head and followed Parkman's gaze across the crowded little sports bar to the television. Where he saw...Parkman. A photograph of Parkman with someone who must be his wife, then another of the ex-police officer in uniform.

MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING EX-OFFICER, the subheading read.

"Shit, they're gonna find me," Parkman said, ducking his head and trying to crawl into the booth's woodwork. "Someone's gonna call in and Primatech's gonna come after me -- "

"Shut up," Bennett ordered. You'd think a police officer would make for a slightly more competent travel companion. 

"Hey, if they find me they find you -- "

"Shut up and let me think," Bennett said. 

They had another four hours to go before his contact could come through with a false ID for Parkman, and after that another two before the next flight out to New York. There was a lot one could do in six hours, but radical plastic surgery wasn't an option. Still...

"Eat up," Bennett barked. "Let's pay and get out of here. Then we need to find a drugstore."

"A drugstore?" Matt asked.

"Yes," Bennett answered. "I need a razor."

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - MANHATTAN

Peter found the warehouse without too much difficulty, considering Claude's vague directions. He felt the whole time as though he were being watched but he knew, now, how to differentiate between what was real and what was just his own brain, psyching himself up. He was certain that if anyone _was_ watching, it was only Claude. He kept invisible, just to be safe.

The factory was unlit and locked, but it didn't take Peter long to find a broken window. He half-thought the place would be filled with junkies and bums -- it was pretty warm and out of the wind -- but it was echoingly empty inside, the floor strewn with debris. The only light, streaming through another broken ground-floor window, fell on a flight of stairs. 

Peter sighed, wondering if Claude could possibly be more cryptic than he already was, and climbed the stairs. The second floor was much cleaner, wide and bare except where machinery had been shoved or piled against the walls. The broken windows here were boarded over, and when he examined them closely he saw that something had been melted along the seams to stop the drafts -- rubber, or maybe plastic. 

He made himself visible again and looked around. Definitely a good place for Claude to practice throwing him against sharp objects and through windows. 

He didn't hear footsteps on the floor below or on the stairs, but he heard a slight crackle as Claude became visible. He turned quickly, waiting for the attack. 

It never came. 

Claude stood in the middle of the floor, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly tilted. He was still wearing the new coat -- longer, dark brown, good for winter Peter supposed. He stretched out one hand and flicked a switch, and a few high-up floodlamps came on, throwing pools of pale white light on the floor. 

"I came," Peter said.

"So I see," Claude answered. 

"I want some answers from you."

"Well, that's the pickle, isn't it?" Claude said, picking up a piece of piping, twirling it around in one hand idly. "I can teach you, or I can give you answers. Not both."

"Why not?"

"Because _I don't feel like it_."

Claude feinted forward with the pipe and Peter jerked back, though they were still too far apart for him to have been hurt. Claude shook his head. 

"I'm not offering you storytime," he continued. "What we have here is a social contract. I teach you how to keep from blowin' up, and you don't blow up. Granted, you've got the upper hand, on account of holding a whole city hostage to your adolescent angst."

"And you care about the city," Peter said, sidestepping when Claude began to circle him.

"I'm not going to stand by while it gets blown up."

"What's the difference?"

"I wouldn't expect you to know," Claude sighed, and let go of the pipe. It continued to spin in midair. Peter felt his jaw drop. 

"So you _are_ an Empath," he said. 

"Yes," Claude said briefly. "And that means your schooling's about to get a lot more interesting."

The pipe slammed forward into Peter's chest, knocking him flat. He heard ribs crack, and thought of Claire; in an instant they crackled back into place. 

He pushed himself up, just in time to dodge a piece of wood flung at him from a pile ten feet from where Claude stood. 

"How does it work for you?" he asked, catching a second board. He didn't want to think of Sylar, but the man did have the ability to fend off the kind of attack he was facing. A bolt began to unscrew itself from the board in his hands. "You eat peoples' brains too?" he asked, hedging for time. 

"That's an amateur's trick," Claude replied. Peter glanced down and saw that the other man's shoes were two inches off the ground. "You and I know better."

The bolt jerked out of the board and flung itself at Claude, pelting him in the head. Blood slid down his temple. He grinned.

"That's more like it," he said. "Try not to impale me, lad; I don't heal like you do."

"Don't you pick up my powers?" Peter asked. Claude shook his head and pulled a spike out of the rubbish. "And is there maybe another way to teach me this _without_ beating the shit out of me?"

"This way's the most fun," Claude answered, and stabbed Peter through the shoulder.

***

JACK BAKER - KEOSAUQUA, IOWA

By the time he checked in, around eleven o'clock that night, Jack was beat. He'd never done a cross-country drive before, certainly not in three days, and while six hours of sleep was generally enough to get him through school, he'd begun to worry about dozing off as he drove. 

He sat down at the little desk in the Noir Room of the Keosauqua Theme Motel and took out a postcard from one of the desk's pigeonholes. He could send a postcard to his parents, and maybe another to the rugrats so that they'd feel special. If he thought really hard about it, he could see where each one of them was. Two hours earlier there; Mom and Dad were getting ready for bed, the twins were reading comics under the covers, the girls were giggling in the bathroom while they played at doing their hair...

Jack felt a stab of homesickness, and finished up the postcards as fast as he could. He could go out and get a soda somewhere and still be back by midnight; he wanted to be around other people for a little while before hitting the sack. 

The Denny's next to the motel was remarkably full of people, but then he supposed in a town like Keosauqua there wasn't much else to do after ten at night. His waiter was pretty cool, though.

"Coffee?" the guy asked.

"Please," Jack said. "And a big, like, plate of something fried."

"Munchies?"

Jack sniggered. "Not yet."

"Dude, smoke it outside, okay?"

"Nah, don't worry, I'm driving, I'm sober. Hey, man, by the way..." Jack caught the waiter's sleeve as he turned to go. "Your glasses are on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."

The man frowned at him. "What?"

"The glasses you're missing. Look on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."

The waiter jerked his sleeve away and nearly ran off. Jack sighed. Maybe he could have handled that better, but it had been kind of a sudden urge. It was supposed to bring good karma and all that. 

He saw through the meal hatch that the waiter was talking with the line cook, and after a minute the cook disappeared, returning with a pair of glasses. Both men stared at Jack for long enough that Jack pretended to be really fucking _engrossed_ with the History Of Keosauqua printed on the paper placemat. 

_With virtually no crime, Keosauqua is a community of friendly neighbors. The town is the geographical center of the Van Buren Community School District and the site of its junior-senior high school. Indian Hills Community College local extension center..._

"Hey, kid."

Jack looked up and smiled at the waiter. "Found your glasses, huh?"

"Yeah -- how'd you know?"

"Dunno. Got a talent for it."

"You know that's a little bit creepy, right?" the waiter asked. 

"Sorry, man. I just thought you'd like to have your glasses back."

The waiter sniffed and stalked off. Jeez, some gratitude. 

"Hey, that was pretty cool," said a new voice, and Jack looked across the back of his booth. Three girls about his age, and two of their boyfriends, were sitting behind him. One of the girls grinned at him. "Is it like a party trick?"

"Sure thing," Jack said. "Hey, you lose anything recently?"

One of the girls looked at her boyfriend and giggled. Aw, _Jesus,_ whatever. 

"I lost twenty bucks out of my wallet yesterday," the other boyfriend said. "You know where it fell?"

Jack looked intently at him, then closed his eyes and tried to Know. 

"It's in your girlfriend's purse," he heard himself say, and then his eyes flew open.

"What did you fuckin' say?" the guy asked. 

"Nothing. Just a joke," Jack began, but the dude was standing up and he was fucking _huge._

"Are you saying my girlfriend's stealing from me, dickhead?"

Jack stood up too, toe to toe with the guy, and looked him in the eye.

Then he ran. 

He vaulted over a chair, dodged around two waiters who appeared out of nowhere, and slammed straight through the rear exit. Knowing where everything was _did_ give you a slight advantage in an escape situation.

He darted around the building, slid behind a shrub, and watched as both boyfriends, one of the waiters, and a chef carrying a spatula ran past. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting until they were back inside before creeping out again. He didn't think anyone had ever crossed the parking lot between Denny's and the Keosauqua Theme Motel at light speed, but he made a valiant try. 

Man. What did he do in a past life to deserve _that?_

***

PETER AND CLAUDE - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - NYC

"You electrocuted me!" Peter said indignantly. 

Claude looked nonplussed. "You seem to have survived it."

"Did you know those wires were live?" Peter asked, pointing at the wall. A handful of wires crackled and sparked where Peter had fallen against them, pulling them down and taking a direct electrical shock that had put him out for almost five minutes. Smoke was still rising off his shirt.

"Fifty-fifty chance," Claude said with a shrug.

"Jesus, I liked that shirt," Peter grumbled, pulling off the tattered remains. The warehouse wasn't exactly warm, and he had gooseflesh all over his shoulders.

"Yeah, shame about that," Claude answered, not really sounding as if he thought it was a shame at all. "Next time, stop me. Or stop the electricity. You've got telekinesis. Use it." 

" _I caught on fire!_ " Peter shouted. 

"That reminds me, I could murder a kebab," Claude mused. "Right, school's out for the night. You're paying, shirtless wonder."

"I'm not buying you dinner!" Peter said, shrugging into his jacket and following Claude to the stairs.

"Fine, then I'm not putting out," Claude retorted with a grin. "If you don't buy it I'll just steal it."

"You're an asshole."

Claude ducked through the broken window and emerged into the dark New York street, putting on his big floppy hat as he did so. "Run along home if you must. I'm getting some grub."

Peter felt his traitorous stomach rumble. Claude, pretending not to notice, took off in the direction of midtown, his coat flapping out behind him. Peter sighed, then ran to catch up.

"When do you want to meet again?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"You're awfully eager to get the snot kicked out of you," Claude replied. "Especially by someone you think is an arsehole."

"Yeah, well. You're an asshole, but you're all I've got." 

"Given up on your brother then, hmm? And the pretty blonde? And your girl, the one who can't choose between you and the addict?" Claude asked. Peter felt that more than he'd felt it when Claude shoved a spike through him.

"She's dead," he said quietly. Claude stopped, so Peter did too. The older man turned to look at him. "Simone. She died."

"What happened?" he asked. Peter rubbed his forehead with his hand.

"Isaac," he muttered. "After they found us I figured he must have shown them where we were. We had a fight. He had a gun."

"I don't quite see how him pointing a gun at you ends in the girl's death."

"I was invisible," Peter whispered. "She walked in the door, he fired. End of story."

Something oddly close to compassion flickered in Claude's eyes for just a second. Then his face seemed to harden.

"Teach you to go round getting involved with people," he said, and walked on.

"Simone's _dead_ ," Peter called after him.

"Yeah, and you're not. Don't make it pointless, eh?"

Peter balled his fists and caught up to him for a second time. Claude led him into a more well-light part of town, busier, louder; lots of nightclubs and cafes. He stopped at a window in a wall and leaned his elbows on the counter.

"Two meat kebabs, bottle of beer, large fries, pita with hummus," Claude said. "He's paying."

The man behind the counter looked at Peter, who sighed and dug in his pocket for his wallet. It was obscenely cheap, considering the amount of food that was passed to Claude through the window, but then "meat" was not a very reassuring designation, and the beer bottle had no label on it. Claude led the way, Peter following curiously, to a darkened doorway nearby. He settled down in the crook of the doorframe and jerked his head at the other side.

"Make yourself at home," he said, passing one of the kebabs and the carton of fries to Peter. He dabbed a triangle of pita in the hummus, pulled half his kebab off the skewer, and made himself a peculiar kind of sandwich, eating noisily.

Peter ate the meat off his own skewer with care, trying not to stab himself on the sharp end. This was a little weird.

"So tell me," Claude said, pausing to chew, "About this list you've laid your hands on."

"I looked at it this afternoon. There's at least a hundred names on there. People like us."

"Doubt that," the other man replied. "Doubt that very much."

"What, you think it's not true?"

Claude shook his head. "You and I," he said, gesturing between them, "know and accept what we are. Most of them are going to be like your brother."

"Leave Nathan alone, he never did anything to you," Peter replied, annoyed. 

"You're going to go all out, eh?" Claude asked. "Find everyone on this list, build a happy family?"

Peter felt very small, sometimes, next to Claude. He picked at the french fries, ashamed of being so predictable. When he looked up again, Claude was watching him. 

"Tell me about the girl in your flat, Naughty Nathan's daughter," Claude said finally, taking another enormous bite of food. 

"You tell me. You ran away when she showed up."

"Too many people in one place. Why complicate matters? You didn't need me."

"Her name's Claire Bennett," Peter murmured. "She's like us."

"Again, with the "like us" crap. Just come out and say it, Petrelli. She's mutated; she's abnormal; she's a freak."

"Is that what you think we are?" Peter asked.

"Doesn't matter what I think." Claude finished his food and shoved the beer bottle's cap into a crack in the step they were sitting on, opening it and taking a long pull. "What matters is what is, and how some people will say it and some won't. So she's got power, eh?"

"She's indestructible. She's the one I learned it from, in Texas." Peter took the beer when Claude offered it, sipping cautiously. 

"The one with the sad little smile," Claude said, grinning mockingly. 

"Do you have to treat everything that way?" Peter asked. "Do you have to make it so...cheap?"

"Someone has to fiddle while Rome burns."

"That doesn't even make sense. She's a good kid. Someone's after her, her dad sent her here to be safe. Well, not here. She came here. She thought I could protect her."

Claude's expression was oddly unreadable -- no cynicism, no anger, no emotion at all. 

"Funny old world," he said quietly, and finished the beer.


	7. Chapter 7

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - THE SAFE HOUSE - MANHATTAN

"You really don't have to cook breakfast," Peter said, sitting at the tiny kitchen table. "I'm kind of a cold-cereal guy myself."

"Is that so?" Claire asked, grinning at him. "Fancy breakfast is bananas on top, huh?"

"Fancy breakfast is heating up the pop tart," Peter laughed. 

"Mom taught me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Claire said, putting a frying pan on the stove and turning the gas on. 

"Is this some kind of southern hospitality thing?"

"Starvation, that's a New York thing?" she replied, taking two glasses out of the cupboard. She poured orange juice into both and put one down in front of him. "I didn't hear you come in last night."

"I'm stealthy," Peter replied. Claire took a package of bacon out of the fridge. "So your mom taught you how to cook?"

"Yeah well, you know. My adopted mom," Claire qualified, feeling a twinge of sadness. 

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," Peter mumbled. 

"It's okay. I got to meet you and my dad, right?" Claire said lightly. "And hey, who wouldn't want a rent-free apartment in New York City?"

"Yeah, totally," Peter said, drinking his orange juice. Claire tossed a few strips of bacon in the pan and put the rest away, taking out a carton of eggs. As she cracked them into a bowl and began to beat them with a fork, Peter got up from the table and squeezed past her, going to the pantry cupboard. 

"Breakfast is a great idea, but I need coffee," he said, taking down a can of instant. There was no kettle, so he filled a pan at the sink and hip-checked her out of the way gently, setting it on a back burner. Claire felt herself grin like an idiot and then wanted to smack herself. _He's your uncle._

Peter leaned on the counter next to the stove, giving her enough room to flip the bacon. It hissed and spattered, but as soon as the burn spots appeared on her hands, they vanished. 

"Nice trick," he said. 

"Life would have been a lot easier without it," she sighed. 

"Yeah, well. Lot less interesting, too," Peter said. "It's a balance, you know?"

"I guess."

"Listen..." Peter tossed hair out of his eyes and bit his lip. "I gotta tell you about -- well, a lot really. Why I went to Texas to save you, for starters. Maybe you can tell me some things, too."

"Sure, I mean, I can try," Claire stammered. Peter nodded. 

She listened, turning the bacon and starting the scrambled eggs as Peter poured out the story to her: the Japanese man who'd sent him to Texas, the paintings, the vision, the coma. He kept his eyes on the fridge opposite him, but she could see the fear in his face. Not fear of dying, she started to understand, but fear of hurting people, of destroying this city which he clearly loved. He finally fell silent, rubbing his chin with his fingers, and she handed him a plate of food. He poured some hot water into a mug, stirred the coffee into it, and carried the mug and plate to the table.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, sitting down across from him. He took a bite of egg, thoughtfully.

"I'm learning how to control what I do," he said. "I don't know if it's gonna be enough. I don't know what I'm gonna do if it isn't. I think -- if I can't master all this, and soon, I think maybe you _should_ leave. Nathan won't, I don't think he really believes it's going to happen, even after everything, but you should. If I have to, I'll get Hiro and Ando to take you out of town."

"Peter..."

"I know, I know, you're indestructible, but I don't think there'd be enough left of you -- not if you're as close as you were in the dreams."

Claire studied her eggs, her appetite suddenly gone.

"Will you stay here today?" she asked. "I know my dad wants to get to know me and all, but I feel...better with you. I'm not scared of you."

"Are you scared of Nathan? You totally don't need to -- "

"No, just...I want you to know that. I'm not scared of what you can do."

Peter smiled at her. "Sure, I can stay here today. Well, until this afternoon."

"More of your complicated guy?"

He laughed. "Yeah, something like that."

***

NATHAN, ANDO, AND HIRO - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

"Okay, so, here's what you do," Nathan said, handing Ando and Hiro a clipboard each and putting a box of pens on Ando's. "You tell them that you want to poll them about their voting choices, and ask them to fill this out. "You can fill out the forms for them if you want to translate yourself."

"Nice pens," Ando said, holding one up. It was printed "VOTE PETRELLI, NOVEMBER 7". 

"Thanks. Now, while they're filling out the form, you want to tell them that you're from the Petrelli campaign and you're reminding people to vote because Nathan Petrelli cares about the rights of minorities and wants them to have a voice in their government. You can tell them that I'm interested in immigration issues and I want to make sure everyone in New York has the same opportunities I've had to be successful and happy."

Hiro gave him an earnest look. "You are a good man."

"Let's try to make sure people believe that," Nathan replied. "If people ask questions you can't answer or you think you're in over your head, just tell them to visit the website -- see?" he held up one of the pens, pointing to the URL in small print. 

"Right!" Ando said.

"And be nice to the kids, you know? Future voters."

Nathan stepped back and look at the two men, who were juggling the clipboards a little uncertainly. "Oh, and I almost forgot..."

He picked up a plastic-wrapped package from a nearby chair and tore the plastic off, shaking it out. The cheap nylon backpack was blazoned with PETRELLI 06 on the back and was objectively pretty tacky, but Hiro took it and put the clipboards in it and beamed at him.

"We have something for you, too," Hiro said, as Ando put his paraphenalia in the bag as well. Hiro reached into his pocket and pulled out something tiny and metallic. Nathan took it out of his palm and studied it. Then he grinned. 

"Supahman!" Hiro said, while Nathan traced the S on the tiny enameled Superman logo. "Whoosh!"

Nathan was about to smile and gently brush the gift off, but then he had a sudden vision. It wasn't anything supernatural, just one of those flashes of insight that come to instinctive politicians. He saw himself being interviewed -- he was scheduled to do a local talk show tomorrow morning -- and the little pin catching the light. 

_The pretty brunette leaned over and asked him, "Now what's all this? This little pin?" Then, coyly, "Are you a superman fan, Mr. Petrelli? Courting the comic-book vote?"_

_"Oh, this! No," Nathan saw himself replying. "This was a gift from one of my volunteers. You know, you can't get anywhere in politics without people, and my volunteers are especially important to me because they're just so -- passionate about what we can accomplish together. They really believe I'm the man for the job, I guess."_

_"That's so sweet," the brunette said. "Well, Nathan "Superman" Petrelli, thank you for coming on the show..."_

Nathan came back down to earth and undid the little fob on the back of the pin, adding it to his lapel right below the American flag pin that was part of the political uniform these days.

"Whoosh," he said to Hiro, who shouldered the backpack and saluted. "Now, get out there."

He watched the two men leave. He was thinking something -- something about Hiro, and his unique abilities still barely touched on -- when his blackberry alarm went off. 

Ah. Yes.

Time to see Niki, the beautiful blonde with the dangerous habit of cropping up when Nathan least expected her. 

***

JACK BAKER - OUTSIDE DAYTON, OHIO

Jack had stuck mostly to the highways, avoiding construction and traffic jams, trying not to go through big cities. Near Dayton, however, he found himself pulling off and into the suburbs. Something was going on; it felt like the back of his brain was tingling inside his skull. 

He followed his instincts, driving down the long empty streets (weekday in the suburb; parents at work, kids at school) until he reached a low brick building, a high school. Oh man. Good times.

He parked the car and got out, blending seamlessly into the crowds of kids passing between classes. He made his way to the gym, where a class of senior boys was playing volleyball. A handful of them were lifting weights in another, smaller room, and in a third room there was one guy in a makeshift batting cage.

Jack listened carefully from behind the door as the coach shouted encouragement at the batter, occasionally telling him to get his shoulder up or step forward more. Jack wasn't a jock by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew pro-level ballplaying when he saw it. And this was the dude he was here to see.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?" the coach asked, suddenly appearing in front of Jack. Jack smiled at him. His hat told Jack all he needed to know -- guy was a Sox fan. 

"Name's Baker," he said, offering his hand. "Sorry to show up unannounced, I was passing through and I heard some word about your boy here."

"Mikey?" the coach asked. 

"Yeah. Sorry..." Jack felt in his pockets. "I haven't got a card on me. I'm with the Sox, I'm a new talent scout. He's got promise."

"Yeah, well," the coach said gruffly. "Couple of years, maybe."

"Maybe so. You mind if I have a word with the kid?"

"Mikey!" the coach called. "Take a break!"

Jack waited outside for Mikey -- Mikey Blair, Jack could see his uniform hanging in his locker as clear as he could see the nose on Mikey's face. 

"Hey there," he said, shaking the other boy's hand and leading him through the corridor under the bleachers, out into the wet mid-morning. "Listen, I just told your coach I'm a talent scout and I'm so totally not, but I need to ask you a question."

"Uh...okay?" Mikey said, rubbing the back of his head. 

"You look like you're hitting homers every time."

"Yeah, well, I did a lot of training last spring," Mikey replied, but he didn't quite meet Jack's eyes.

Bingo.

"So, when did you know you had super strength?" Jack asked. 

The silence got kinda long. 

"I'm not on steroids," Mikey said.

"I know. How much you lift on the weights, last time you tried?"

Mikey muttered something.

"What?"

"SUV," Mikey said.

"Listen, I'm not up on the weight-lifting lingo, did you say you can like -- bench an SUV?"

"It got stuck in some mud, I just...picked it up and dragged it out. How'd you know?" Mikey demanded.

"I'm not here to get you in trouble. I'm like you. I mean, I can't leg-lift a Navigator, but I find stuff. People. Things. Uh, by the way, your homework got stuck in the back of your locker."

"Are you serious?" Mikey asked.

"Yeah."

"So this isn't just me? I'm not some kind of freak?"

"Well, you probably are a freak, but you're not the only freak, is kinda my point," Jack replied. To his shock, Mikey swept him up in an enormous hug which threatened to crack his ribs. "Uh...can't...breathe..." 

"Shit! Sorry!" The other boy set him down again and wiped suspiciously damp eyes. "I'm always doing that. Sorry."

"It's cool. So..." Jack said awkwardly. "I just, you know. Found you, and wanted to say."

"Are you from around here?"

"No, I'm on my way to New York, just passing through. I'm, uh, going to find this girl, who's like us. You can come if you want, but you look like you got a good thing going here, you know, groovy baseball career and all. But look me up sometime, okay? Here."

Jack took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled his email address on a gum wrapper, pressing it into Mikey's hand. 

"I thought I was alone," Mikey said, staring down at the gum wrapper.

"Everybody does," Jack replied. 

***

JESSICA SANDERS AND NATHAN PETRELLI - LOW DOWN MOTEL - NYC

Nathan occasionally wished that, like Peter, he could disappear. It would make some of his less legitimate dealings so much easier. 

Instead, he made do with a pair of sunglasses and a black ten-gallon hat, borrowed from the lost-and-found at headquarters. He figured nobody looking at a cowboy hat would immediately think Italian-American politico.

He took the subway and arrived at the motel on foot, knocking on the door to room 215 as she'd told him to do. There were footsteps inside, and then he heard someone lean against the door. It opened with a click.

The room inside was small but tidy, though the bed was rumpled. Niki, hiding behind the door, closed it quickly and re-locked it. Nathan took off the hat and sunglasses, offering her his hand.

"Thanks for coming," she said, eyes darting sidelong, never quite lighting on his face. "I appreciate it."

"You said you had some information for me," he said.

"Good to see you too."

He gave her his winning-candidate smile, all teeth and jaw. "Sorry. I guess I'm...concerned about being in a hotel room, again, with a beautiful blonde. Last time you made me punch you, and I still don't know why."

She shook her head, as if she were trying to shake off some memory. "I'm sorry. My life is...a little strange."

"Do tell."

"Linderman has me under his thumb," she said. "Just like you. I'm...I'm here because of him. Oh -- sorry, sit down if you want."

Nathan sat in the one chair in the room, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them. She sat on the bed, her hair falling across her face. Nathan noticed that the mirror on the bathroom sink had been covered over with a towel. Niki clearly didn't want to look even herself in the eye.

She wasn't exactly dressed to seduce, but there was something magnetic about her, an almost electric air of restrained power. Nathan liked power, he wasn't going to lie to himself about that, but he'd rarely encountered such a tangible aura of it in any other person. Even in tattered jeans, barefoot and still damp-haired from the shower, in a plain white t-shirt, she was also ridiculously attractive. In fact, when the light hit her just right and she leaned back...

"You're here from Linderman," he said, clearing his throat.

"He sent me here," she said, whispering. "To make sure you win."

Nathan looked at her.

"You?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"I don't -- "

"I can go places you can't, I can say things you can't say," she said softly. "I've already started, I..."

"Niki, what have you done?" he asked. 

"Tomorrow, you need to make a speech," she said. "It's all arranged. The union...a pro-union speech. The unions are waiting for it."

"Shouldn't be hard, I'm pro-union, but such a direct statement -- I could lose voters."

"I know, but...think of it this way," she said, gaining momentum. "If you come out pro-union and lose five percent of your voters, you gain fifteen percent -- maybe twenty. Union means something in New York. It means a lot."

She was -- remarkable, really remarkable. Nathan nodded.

"I can do that."

"Then that's a start. I can do more, I just..." she twisted her fingers together. "More depends on you winning than just you."

"What do you mean?"

"If you win, I'm -- I'm free of him. I'm out from under," she said. "And I can't, if you don't win, I don't think..."

She started to cry, trying to hold it in. Nathan crossed the space between them and crouched in front of her.

"Come on, don't do that," he said, smiling at her. "Come on, don't cry. I'm going to win. And then you'll get free..."

She finally met his eyes, sniffling, trying not to cry, and Nathan was only human. He grasped her shoulders. 

"I'm going to win," he said. "You'll get out of this."

Their faces were dangerously close, and he knew it, and still he didn't move when she swayed forward and kissed him.

She'd been the only one since the accident, six months ago, and otherwise he'd had to make do with his memories of Heidi and dreams and nothing else, because even if there were things he and Heidi could do, the physical therapist had said so, he didn't want to push and Heidi was still so anxious, god, who was he to ask for a blowjob when she couldn't even walk? 

She leaned onto the bed and he went with Niki, following as she backed towards the headboard, her tongue in his mouth, her hands on his body. Pushing off his jacket, untucking his shirt, sliding down his thighs -- 

Nathan leaned back to shed his jacket completely and that was when he felt it. In his head, in the very center of his mind.

_Nathan._

He stiffened and looked up, as if the word had come from above. Niki, writhing beneath him, clutched his ass and tried to pull him down, but he resisted. 

_NATHAN!_

Peter's voice. 

Nathan looked down at Niki and saw her, and saw something dreadful in her eyes -- soulless and cruel. He jerked back, almost falling off the bed, and knew deep down that the reason he didn't was because for just a second he floated. 

"What's wrong?" she asked, propping herself up on one elbow. Nathan nearly lost his composure a second time, but the ring of Peter's shout was still in his ears.

"I can't," he said. "I have to go -- I can't -- I'm sorry -- "

She watched as he tucked his shirt back in hurriedly, sloppily, and ran for the door. 

He was four blocks away before he realised he'd left his hat behind.

***

JESSICA SANDERS AND CLAUDE RAINS - LOW DOWN MOTEL - NYC

"Shit," Jessica moaned, after the door closed. "I was _this_ close."

She rolled over on her side, facing away from the door, then turned back restlessly...and then froze. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she almost saw it -- surely she had just been expecting that stupid hat to be there on the table near the door, and that was why it seemed to be there for a second and then disappear. 

She picked up her purse from beside the bed, kicked the bed itself, and stormed out, slamming the door.

Once she was gone, there was an amused exhalation from the other occupant of the room -- right before he appeared out of thin air. 

Claude grinned down at the black hat, touching the brim of his own.

"Great minds think alike," he murmured.

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - NYC

"My head is cold," Matt complained. It was not the first time the complaint had been made.

"Jesus, I'll buy you a hat," Bennett replied, irritated. He hadn't slept well the night before and couldn't sleep on the airplane at all. He felt unprepared, vulnerable, and a little bit lost, a feeling he never enjoyed. 

They weren't prepared for New York City weather, either. Parkman had a light coat on over his shirt, the warmest thing Bennett could find for him; Bennett's jacket was not much warmer, but it was impossible to find cold-weather clothing in Austin, where the temperature was holding steady at seventy-eight degrees. 

Parkman's freshly-shaven head was bound to be cold, he'd concede, but it was a pretty good spur-of-the-moment disguise. Bennett knew that most people looked for two things when they were trying to find someone: hair and clothing. With Parkman's hair gone, he was that much closer to anonymity. Bennett ought to know. He'd made a career of blending in.

Bennett stopped in front of a clothing store inside the terminal, checking to see if they sold coats. He had a limited amount of money, but if it would shut Parkman up he'd buy the man a goddamn hat. 

"Here," he said, passing the ex-cop a pair of hundred dollar bills. "Buy a small suitcase and a rolling bag. I'll get us some clothing. What's your jacket size?"

Parkman gave him a blank look. 

"I'll guess," Bennett sighed.

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS AND CLAIRE BENNETT - THE SAFE HOUSE - MANHATTAN

Peter had another two hours before he had to meet again with Claude, and he was enjoying the afternoon. It reminded him of his job with Mr. Deveaux; the long, sleepy, warm days while Mr. Deveaux dozed and Peter, inbetween regular checks and doses, was free to read or listen to music or just sit at the window overlooking the city and think. 

Claire had asked him about New York, so he'd told her; she'd told him a little bit about Odessa, a little about her family, though he could tell she didn't really want to talk much about that. It was comfortable. She was pretty grown-up for a high-schooler. More grown up than Peter had been when he was her age. 

They were sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table, playing Scrabble (it had come with the apartment, like basic cable), when the door burst open and Nathan skidded inside.

They looked at him. He looked at them. Slowly, he closed the door.

"You all right?" Peter asked cautiously. Nathan's shirt was barely tucked in, and he was breathing heavily.

"Are _you_?" Nathan asked. 

"Should I...not be?" Peter asked, grinning a little. It wasn't often Nathan was at a loss; he intended to enjoy it. 

"I thought..." Nathan gestured at the two of them. "I thought I heard you, uh. Call me."

"Call you?" Peter asked. "Nah, we've been here all day. We did call the pizza place down the block, I'm gonna go get lunch in a minute."

"So you didn't, you know." Nathan made a circle next to his ear with one finger. Peter mimicked it. "With your...brain."

"Huh?" Peter asked, playing dumb. God, this was fun. It felt like they were kids again, when he used to tease Nathan into saying silly things that were a badly-needed blow to Nathan's overzealous sense of dignity. 

"You didn't use...telepathy or something," Nathan said.

"No," Peter said.

"Peter, this isn't the time for games -- "

"I'm not playing games," Peter replied, getting a little annoyed. "Well, except Scrabble."

"You seriously didn't call me."

" _With my brain?_ No." Peter shook his head. "You want in on the pizza? We're getting Hawaiian."

Nathan's concerned expression was momentarily overridden by a vaguely disgusted look. He really hated pineapple. 

"No, I have...other things. I guess...carry on, then," Nathan said, looking perplexed. 

"That was the plan," Peter replied, turning back to his Scrabble. He'd almost forgotten Claire was there, until she spoke up.

"Are you coming back today?" she asked.

"Not...no, I -- " Nathan frowned. "Today's busy. It's only going to get worse, the closer we get to election. I'll -- how about breakfast tomorrow?"

"She makes a mean scrambled egg," Peter put in. 

"Can't wait to try them," Nathan said, with his patented politician's grin. 

***

JACK BAKER - NEW YORK CITY AT LAST!

Jack rolled into New York around dinnertime that evening, and immediately understood why he had been avoiding the big cities.

As he passed through Newark on the interestate, he began to feel his brain clouding up. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, not like when he _intentionally_ clouded his brain up. It was more like...he had spent three days seeing with absolute clarity, and now all this noise, all these people, were getting the hell in the way of his spirit walk. 

Still, he pressed onwards, clinging to the thin thread that was now linking him to the Japanese dudes. He didn't know where he was going, except that it was towards them. Which incidentally meant that he was going towards the heart of New York City, where _everyone was fucking insane._ Seriously, how did people survive past infancy in this place?

Taxicab drivers honked and swore at him, other drivers cut him off, and pedestrians flipped him the bird, but he kept his cool. He was still on his quest, after all. 

After about half an hour he began to figure out that it wasn't the city itself, the city wasn't some kind of malevolent monster. It was the people, so many people, and all of them were looking for stuff. 

As soon as he thought it, an overwhelming sense of loss washed over him, and he nearly had to stop the car. Everyone was looking for something, mostly things Jack could feel pinging on his radar, glowing distantly. Love, sex, car keys, a decent cup of coffee, a parking space, a fix, a couple bucks for dinner. Even things Jack knew he couldn't find, like a sense of purpose or a way to add an extra hour onto the day. 

"This is your trial," he repeated to himself. "There's no reward without a trial. The gods are, you know, seeing if you can cut it. Suck it up. Get through today and you're cool."

He closed his eyes and thought of the Japanese dudes again. The endless, ceaseless _need_ of New York filled his ears, but he pressed onwards. Too late to turn back now.


	8. Chapter 8

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

"So," Peter said, climbing the stairs to the second level, "What are we kicking my ass with today? Sticks? Boards? Fire?"

Claude, standing at one of the windows with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, turned and scythed Nathan's black hat through the air. Peter caught it clumsily and studied it, perplexed.

"You can return that to your brother with my compliments," Claude said. "He'll know what it means."

Peter set the hat down on a nearby bit of machinery and looked at him expectantly. Claude walked to a pile of sharp, rusty-edged objects leaning against one wall and began to pick and choose among them.

"Does this ever go anywhere?" Peter asked, stepping left when Claude stepped right, already automatically on the defensive.

"You tell me," Claude replied. "Can you defend yourself? When you decide to blow a hole in the eastern seaboard, you're not going to have time to think or plan. If you can't think on your feet, you'll die on them."

He feinted a strike on Peter's shoulder with the sharp end of the spar and then hit him across the ribcage with the dull, rounded other end. Peter doubled over and Claude nicked just his earlobe with the sharp side. 

"Where'd you learn to fight?" Peter asked, raising his hand to block another strike. To Claude's surprised pleasure, the spar never made it as far as his palm, quivering a few inches away. 

"Manchester Council Estates," Claude answered. 

"What?"

"The projects," Claude clarified, whapping him smartly upside the head. "Come on, you're not a punching bag, fight back. Come on!"

"I'm trying!" Peter said, but he was flinching away every time Claude feinted. No good; clearly he'd been too nice to the boy recently. Feeding the puppy was a mistake. 

"Useless!" Claude shouted, aiming between Peter's legs. "Stop defending, start attacking!"

Peter snarled and leapt for him; Claude wasn't as young as he used to be and flipping Peter back against a wall nearly made him lose his wind. Peter's reaction was more what he wanted, but Peter was too comfortable with momentary rage for Claude's approval. Besides, there was more to fighting than physical control.

He decided on the spur of the moment; he lowered his usual defences and turned to face Peter again, projecting outwards.

 _Fight, boy!_ he commanded, which proved to be a mistake. Peter only flinched, but the echo of what he'd said hit Claude so hard he fell backwards, blown off his feet.

"Jesus!" Peter said, leaping forward. Claude clutched his head, which had taken a nasty rap on the concrete, and felt himself curl into a fetal ball. He felt Peter's hands, too, first on his ribcage trying to roll him off his side, then on his wrist, taking his pulse. He ignored them and concentrated, clearing his mind and dampening down the way the Haitian had taught him. After a second, none but the pain of the fall remained. He shook his head and sat up. There were worse things.

Peter was touching his back now, helping him sit upright, and cupping his face with his other hand. Claude tilted his head for just a moment, surprised by how intent Peter's stare was, until he realised he was being checked to make sure his pupils weren't dilated. 

"I'm all right," he snarled, trying to take deep breaths. Peter backed away, which helped. They stayed there, Claude resting his head in his hands, Peter standing back and watching him cautiously, until Peter cleared his throat.

"You spoke to me," he said, awed. "I didn't know you could do that."

"You echoed," Claude replied. It hurt to talk. "Ever met a telepath before?"

"Umm..." Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I think so. In Texas. Maybe."

Claude pushed himself to his feet, the back of his head throbbing. He rubbed it, which only made it hurt more, but the pain cleared his mind. 

"Who, in Texas?" he asked.

"Some guy...when they were interrogating me."

"Who was interrogating you?" Claude barked, then caught his breath when pain stabbed through his skull. Clear the head, clear the head...

"Just the cops," Peter said. His eyes were wide and frightened. 

"Someone heard you? Your thoughts?"

"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing one arm. Claude swayed and Peter jerked forward, but he shoved him back with one hand.

"I'm all right," he repeated, stumbling to the stairs up to the third level. He sat down on them just as the room started to go fuzzy before his eyes. Peter followed, still keeping a safe distance. 

"What happened?" Peter asked. "What'd I do?"

"I opened up. Wanted to see how you'd take it," Claude said, breathing deeply. "You echoed it back when my guard was down. Not bad."

"Thanks," Peter mumbled. 

"No more fighting today," Claude continued. The pain was fading, making him conscious of other bruises. He stretched out his left arm and felt his elbow click, the joints realigning after catching most of his weight. 

"Okay," Peter agreed, brows knitting. "Seriously, are you hurt? I'm a _nurse_ , y'know."

"Nothing broken," Claude answered. "I'll live."

Peter kept watching him, waiting, until the world swam back into focus and the urge to throw up became only a distant nausea. 

"Right," Claude said. "I think I've been going about this wrong."

Peter spread his hands questioningly. Claude beckoned him close, and Peter leaned forward, for once looming over him instead of the reverse.

"You aren't afraid of gettin' hurt," Claude said. "Don't blame ya; you heal. Fear's a good motivator, but you have to find the right fear. This isn't it. Got to be another one."

"Another...fear?"

Claude, without warning, reached out and gripped Peter by the back of the neck, pressing his other palm to Peter's forehead. He opened his own mind and found the part of Peter that had come from the painter, the Precog. 

"See it," he whispered, and Peter's eyes whited out. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

MATT, BENNETT, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO

"You," Isaac Mendez said, when he answered the door at Bennett's knock. He didn't open the door wide enough to admit either of them, barely wide enough to put his head through to talk to Bennett. He was sweating and his face had the drawn, desperate look that Matt recognised from crackhouse busts and 3am call-outs.

Mendez nodded his head at Matt. " 'Nother trick pony? What's this one do?"

"Reads minds," Bennett answered crisply.

"Yeah. Great," Mendez answered. "Listen, I'm kinda busy for card tricks right now -- "

"We need to come in. I need you to do something for me," Bennett said. 

"I don't work for free anymore," Mendez said.

"You mean you're chasing," Bennett said.

"Get me a fix..." Mendez grinned ingratiatingly. 

"I'm not buying you heroin," Bennett retorted. 

"Sorry. Can't paint right now."

Bennett caught the door before it could close. "Won't, you mean. And oh, yes you will."

He shoved the door, knocking Mendez back against the rail of the stairs. Matt watched, stunned, as he walked through the open door and put his hand around the artist's throat, choking him.

"You are going to show me your paintings," he said through gritted teeth, "And you are going to _find my daughter._ "

"Fuck you," Mendez managed, and Bennett tightened his grip. 

"Hey!" Matt said, grabbing Bennett's shoulder as Mendez started to choke. "HEY! LET HIM GO!"

He put himself between the two men, facing Bennett. "You kill him, you definitely won't get what you want."

Bennett wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring furiously at Mendez. 

"Let's just, let's just take a minute here," Matt said. "Mendez, we're gonna go through your paintings. We'll talk about, uh, commissions after we've seen what you've been doing. So you can stay out of the way or you can help us look through them. Either way, nobody's getting any heroin right now."

Mendez began to laugh. It was horrible, one of those cynical mirthless laughs that people tried after they'd been arrested. Matt hated the sound. Mendez tilted his head back and laughed and laughed, and when Matt turned around he saw the mural on the floor for the first time.

Bennett, who had seen something else, brushed past him and walked down the stairs, crossing the floor like it was linoleum, and not an enormous depiction of a bomb destroying New York. He stopped in front of a pair of easels at the far end, each with a large canvas on it.

Matt, horrified and perplexed, followed him down, leaving Mendez to fall in a twitching heap against one of the railing supports.

The first painting made his head hurt almost immediately; it was a painting of himself and Bennett, right down to Matt's shaved head. In the painting, the two of them were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in that painting, they were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in _that_ painting...

He pulled his gaze away from it and looked at the other one, the one Bennett was staring at as if his doom was written in it. Bennett's pretty blonde daughter was clearly the woman in the painting, but Matt didn't know who the man standing behind her was. 

Bennett did, though. It was in his mind as clear as if he'd said it aloud.

 _Jesus oh sweet Jesus Christ,_ Bennett thought, lifting a hand to hover his fingers over his daughter's face. _She's with Claude. Oh Jesus, she's alive, and she's with Claude._

***

CLAUDE RAINES AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS  
EIGHT YEARS AGO

"All right, before you go in," Claude said, blocking the doorway with his body and holding up his palms. "It looks worse than it is."

"What have you two _fools_ \-- " Mrs. Bennett began, punching him in the shoulder. 

"Ow!" Claude gave her an injured look.

"It's all right, Claude," Bennett called from his hospital bed. Claude glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged and stood aside. The rest of the Bennett family poured into the room, gratifyingly eager to be at the patriarch's bedside. Bennett smiled at his wife as he rested a hand on his son's head, then his daughter's, trying to reassure them.

"Oh, honey, look at you," his wife said, smoothing his hair down, away from the stupendous black eye on the left side of his face. "What on earth possessed you to go _rock climbing?_ Claude!"

"This isn't his fault," Bennett said. "He warned me, didn't you, Claude." 

"I told him not to," Claude said. To be fair, he _had_ warned him not to go up alone against someone with lighting-fast reflexes. 

"The guys from Boise-Cascade challenged me. Had to defend Primatech's reputation," Bennett said with a wan smile. His head was killing him. "I only fell about fifteen feet."

"Oh only," she scolded. "Claude, you are _still_ responsible for him!"

"What d'you want me to do, catch him?" Claude asked. 

"Save him from himself," she sighed. Claire clambered up the side of the bed to hug her daddy, and he flinched when she hit a sore spot (or two, or five).

"All right, kids, let's go, daddy needs his rest." His wife bent down and kissed his forehead affectionately. "Get better. We'll be back tomorrow to pick you up, kay?"

"Love you," he said, holding her hand tightly. She patted his fingers, then let him go. Claude lifted Claire to the floor, then waited until the others were out in the hallway. When Bennett beckoned, he leaned over the bed.

"You got your arse kicked," he teased.

"Watch I don't kick yours," Bennett said. "Listen, I need a favor."

"Name it," Claude said, serious now. 

"Go home with them," Bennett said in a low, urgent voice. 

"Wife like yours, they don't need much protectin' she can't provide," Claude answered, amused. Bennett opened his mouth, but Claude shushed him. "Already practically got her makin' up the spare room bed for me, don't fret."

"You're a good friend, Claude."

"Aye, I know it," Claude grinned. "You lot are the closest I have, boy-o."

"Look after Claire and Lyle."

"You're concussed, not dyin'."

"Claude."

"Right, all right." Claude leaned in close, his eyes serious in a carefully casual face. "I'll protect 'em like they were my own kids, you know that. Always have, always will," he added, and then he was gone, off down the corridor, promising to tell Bennett's children all about his rock-climbing-wall accident if only Mrs. Bennett would cook her famous chicken casserole for dinner. 

Bennett relaxed on the pillow. Claude was his friend, and Bennett knew the man had a knack for getting out of the kind of trouble Bennett tended to get into. 

If Claude was with them, they were safe. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN 

***

BENNETT, PARKMAN, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO

"If I paint," Isaac said, pulling Bennett's attention away from the painting, "What's to stop me painting whatever I want? I could show her to you dead, I could show _you_ dead. Unless I'm high, you just don't know. Get me a fix, then we'll talk."

Bennett stared at him. 

"I think, back in the day, they called this a Mexican Standoff," Isaac said, giggling. 

"Parkman," Bennett barked. "Stay here. I'm going to go buy our friend some painting supplies. If he tries to run, knock him out."

He saw from Parkman's expression that he wasn't about to attack someone in cold blood, junkie or otherwise. Isaac didn't see that, though, and perception was what counted.

Bennett locked the door behind him.

***

HIRO AND ANDO - LUCKY DOG CAFE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Nathan Petrelli paid them personally, in cash and by the day, and neither Hiro nor Ando had any illusions about taking their pay out of some kind of petty cash fund. Still, it did cover the hotel, and three square meals a day.

Not that this particular dinner was square, precisely.

" _French fries_ ," Hiro said, folding up his menu. " _And bowl of chili._ "

" _Club sandwich,_ " Ando added. 

" _Fries or coleslaw?_ " the waitress asked.

" _Coleslaw._ "

" _Coke?_ "

" _No, thank you,_ " Hiro said. The waitress ambled off, and the two men were left with their water glasses and sore feet. 

"They make better chili in Texas," Hiro declared. 

"I know, you keep saying," Ando replied. "My feet are killing me."

"It was a good day's work," Hiro mused. 

"We earned our pay, anyway," Ando said. "I think we walked every block in New York."

"Oh no, not even close!" Hiro said joyously. 

"We could really use the Versa," Ando sighed. 

Before Hiro could reply, there was a discreet cough. Both of them looked up.

A young blond man -- more like a boy -- was standing at their table. He bowed. 

"That's the guy!" Ando said. "The guy from Mr. Isaac's painting!"

" _Uh, hi,_ " the boy said. "Hello. _Do you speak English? I hope you speak English. I've, um, brought you a car._ "

Ando looked at Hiro. Hiro smiled knowingly.

" _Plot-tuwistu,_ " he said. 

***

MOHINDER SURESH

The hospital heart monitor beeps like a metronome -- steady, regular, no aberration or variation. 

His chart is updated regularly every few hours, like a mathematical equation which balances out to zero gain on each side. No change. In another day, maybe two, they'll take the handsome young man down to radiology for tests -- brainwave function, MRI, CT. 

All normal, at least for a coma patient. Trauma healing nicely. No visitors. 

Normal, normal, normal. Ordinary and regular. No flaws, no mutations. Nothing in the slightest way extraordinary about him.

 _Tick, tick_ goes his heart, and the monitor replies in the quiet room, _beep, beep._

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

Peter woke on the floor of the factory, momentarily blinded by the floodlamp that shone down on him. He pushed himself to his elbows, trying to place where he was and why he was there. 

God, the vision.

It had never been so clear or so precise, the vision of the explosion. He couldn't fathom what would empty out a major midtown intersection at midday, what would make all those people leave their cars; perhaps it was only a metaphor. Maybe so, since he still saw Isaac carrying Simone away from him, and Simone was dead.

He shook his head. The intense detail with which he'd seen Nathan's flesh melt from his fast-charring skull, the way Claire's muscles were stripped away, the blistering on Claude's skin just before it burst into flame...it was as if he were suddenly able to take what he'd seen indistinctly before and put a microscope over any given part of it. And behind it, there seemed like there was something else, another image trying to break through -- just the smell of scorched earth and the feel of some kind of physical contact, but there was something underlying the surface vision.

He had the dim awareness that this was why the vision had echoed forward to him -- it wasn't coming from the moment of explosion but from this moment, when the intensity of it was multiplied by the thousands. This time, the impact was so great that it was sending ripples outwards through time, just like Claude had said -- 

Claude.

" _Fuck,_ " Peter said, scrambling to his feet, bloodying his palms on the hard concrete in the process. They healed over as he staggered upright, looking around. Claude was sprawled out against the stairs, his head crooked to one side and his eyes shut. Blood dripped from a gash on his scalp where it had knocked against a stair-edge.

Peter approached carefully, because with Claude you just _never fucking knew_ , but when he touched Claude's arm he got no response at all. He checked his pulse and breathing, made sure his pupils weren't blown, then carefully turned him over. 

The cut was across his temple, just above his ear. It wasn't deep, but like all scalp wounds it was a bleeder. Peter found a tissue in his pocket and cleared away some of the blood, then pressed the tissue over the wound. Claude's whole body jerked and Peter found himself flung across the room before he could even open his mouth. He hit the wall so hard his wind was knocked out of him. 

He picked himself up and gasped for breath, then sighed with relief as his lungs filled with air. Claude was sitting upright, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. 

"Hey, it's me," Peter said, holding up both hands as he came forward. "Just trying to get a good look at the cut, okay?"

Claude's eyes didn't immediately focus. When they did, he frowned and tried to get up, slipping down the stairs. He caught himself on the railing and stood unsteadily as Peter approached.

"You gonna throw me against a wall again?" Peter asked.

"No," Claude muttered. 

"Gimme a look?"

Claude sat down again heavily, and Peter realised just how much he benefited from being able to heal like Claire did. He'd forgotten there was a time when he couldn't shake off a beating and re-socket his shoulder joint with no more thought than he'd use cracking a knuckle. 

"We should get it cleaned out. You won't need stitches," Peter said, bending over the wound, tilting Claude's head to one side. 

"Water upstairs," Claude muttered. Peter went up the steps two at a time and found an open door to a locker-room at the top, complete with toilets, showers, and a line of sinks below a long mirror. 

There was a toothbrush on the nearest sink. 

Peter realised this wasn't just some meeting-place to kick his ass in; Claude _lived here,_ in this abandoned factory.

He considered filling the undoubtedly bacteria-ridden cup next to the toothbrush with water, then tried opening the lockers. One of them had a bottle of rubbing alcohol in it, and another a stack of what he took to be fabric scraps; when he unwound one he realised that Claude made a _habit_ of stealing scarves. The bastard probably had an entire box of peoples' car keys sitting around somewhere, too. 

He sifted through them -- some were clearly expensive and new, and one looked like it had to be at least ten feet long, like a gag gift. He took one of the less grimy-looking ones and went back down the stairs. Claude was still sitting on the bottom one, but he looked more alert than he had a moment before. Peter poured alcohol onto the end of the scarf and was about to disinfect the cut when Claude jerked back.

"What are you, my mother?" he asked, frowning. He took the end of the scarf and did it himself, pulling the wound open wider in the process. Peter sighed. Claude _had_ to do things the hard way.

"See anything interesting?" Claude asked, wincing.

"I saw a lot," Peter said. "Why'd you do that?"

"Told you. Fear of pain wasn't working."

"Fear of you getting smacked in the head going to work better?"

Claude did give him a grin for that one. He folded up the scarf and steepled his fingers.

"What did you see?" he asked.

Peter looked down, wishing his hair was still long so that he could hide behind it. "The explosion again. Clearer this time, though. I saw -- Nathan dying. Claire dying. You, dying."

"And?"

"And I don't want that to happen?" Peter ventured. "I see things so clearly now. Is that what you wanted?"

"For you to see how everyone _else_ is goin' to suffer if you don't get yourself under control?" Claude asked. "Whyever would I want you to see that."

"Yeah, well." Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. "It worked."

"So, starting now, that's why you work. _That's_ why you fight. I'll start punching other people in the head if I have to," Claude added, and Peter grinned a little. 

"Why are you really doing this?" he asked suddenly, and Claude looked up at him. "Saving New York, okay, I get that, but you wouldn't care this much. Destroying a city's too abstract. Nobody can really get their head around it. So there has to be another reason. Don't -- just, don't make fun of me," Peter said, as Claude opened his mouth. "Just once, okay, give me a straight answer." 

Claude closed his mouth and stared up at him. "Why does it matter?"

"Because it _does_ , Claude!" Peter exploded. "Why _doesn't_ it to you?"

"Comes with the territory," Claude muttered.

"What does that even mean?"

"D'you think I enjoy beating people?" Claude asked.

"Probably!"

"D'you think I enjoy getting my head bashed in?"

"You're not _answering me_!"

"D'you think if you can't control your temper right now, you'll be able to control anything more than that, ever?" Claude asked, and Peter realised he'd been checkmated by a man who at the moment wasn't entirely able to walk. He exhaled, then sat on the step below Claude, resting his forehead against his palms.

"For just a second let's stop thinking about saving New York," he said.

"You haven't got that luxury."

"I'm trying to get my head on straight, okay?"

Claude was silent for long enough that Peter looked up to make sure he hadn't passed out again. He was staring ahead, not really _at_ anything, turning the scarf over in his hands.

"When you're a kid, you think it's about savin' the world," he said. "When you grow up, you think it's about savin' yourself. Neither one seems real, anyway. Can't get your head around it. You think that nothing you do really has consequences. Until suddenly, one day, it does."

He frowned, still not looking at Peter. "Bet you hated school, didn't you."

"Mostly."

"You're the one found me, Petrelli. You're the one followed me, not the other way round. When you ask for a teacher, you're makin' a bargain. You owe me."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Yes you do. You owe your best effort, which I will concede you _think_ you're giving. You owe trust and obedience, which are not incidentally your strong points."

"Hey, I trust people who don't throw me off buildings."

"For your own good," Claude replied. "You're missing the point. Again."

"So tell me, Sensei, since I'm supposed to trust and obey you, what the point is."

Claude tested the wound, examining the last traces of blood on his fingers. He offered his hand to Peter. "I owe you too."

"What, blood?" Peter asked.

"Yes, if needed. I'm the teacher. You're my responsibility. If New York goes the way of Hiroshima, it's my fault, now."

"But not really."

"Yes," Claude said. "Really."

"But that's -- "

"You are my student. You are my responsibility."

Peter peered at him. "This is really important to you. Students and teachers."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"One of the benefits of being the teacher," Claude said, pushing himself to his feet, "is that I get to choose what answers I give."

Peter caught his arm, holding onto the sleeve. Claude gave him a withering look.

"When are we meeting again?" he asked.

"Who said we were finished?" Claude replied, and flung him down the stairs. 

Peter began to fall and closed his eyes and _stopped_ , right before he hit the steps. He found himself floating in midair, tilted up slightly, arms flailing for balance. Claude reached out and grasped the toe of his sneaker, then shoved.

Peter sighed as he tumbled through the air.

It was going to be a long evening.

***

JACK, ANDO, AND HIRO - LUCKY DOG CAFE

Jack had a moment of anxiety over whether the Japanese dudes could speak English, but both of them seemed like they could get along pretty well, and they looked friendly.

"Please, sit down," one of them said. "A car for us?"

"Well, you know. _Your_ car," Jack said. "Your Versa."

"Our Versa?" 

"Yeah! I found it in Vegas and was like, dude, these guys in New York need me. I'm Jack, by the way, Jack Baker," he said, offering his hand. 

"Jack! Very nice to meet you. I am Hiro Nakamura," said Hiro, shaking his hand. "This is Ando Masahashi. We are from Tokyo."

"Awesome. I'm from Ojai. Here's your keys," Jack said, holding out the Versa's key fob. 

"How did you know?" Ando asked, accepting them.

"It's my walkabout," Jack answered. "Like, a quest."

"A quest," the guy named Hiro said, nodding to his pal. 

"Like, okay, a few days ago? I woke up? And I could...find stuff," Jack said, faltering only when he realised how weird it sounded. "All kinds of stuff."

"You are special," Hiro said significantly.

"Well, yeah," Jack agreed. He noticed that there was a dollar bill and a map of the New York Subway under his seat, and shifted subtly in order to reach them.

"Like me. I bend time and space," Hiro said. 

Jack squinted. "Are you joking?"

"I don't joke!" Hiro indicated the sword -- hey, cool, a sword! -- propped against the seat next to him. "This is the sword of Kensei. Great Japanese hero. It helps me to bend time and space."

"Like, stop time?"

"Yes!"

"Totally? Really? That's awesome!" Jack said. 

"Awesome," Hiro echoed, giving Ando a significant look. Ando smiled. 

"Listen, I have a question for you," Jack continued, and both men immediately composed themselves to pay close, serious attention. Jack was impressed. These dudes were cool.

"You don't have some kind of deep wisdom to impart or anything, do you?" Jack said. "Some ancient learning or a vision or something?"

Ando frowned. Hiro shook his head.

"That's cool. I just thought, you know, you might be able to help. See, my quest's not done yet."

"Not done yet?" Ando asked.

"Yeah. I had this vision, to go to New York and bring you your car. And on the way to New York, I saw another vision, of this girl."

Both men grinned.

"You laugh, but she's the one I'm here to find. She's my soulmate."

"Soulmate," Hiro said, in an awed voice. "Soul-mate?"

"Like, person you're meant to be with."

"Like Ando!" Hiro said enthusiastically.

"Ummm...sure, if you swing that way," Jack agreed. "Anyway, she's here and I gotta find her. But this power, it doesn't really work too well in New York. There's just, you know. So much lost stuff. So I thought maybe you had a magic thing for me or something. Like your sword."

Hiro shook his head mournfully. 

"That's cool. Hey, listen, it's been totally Eastern, but I've gotta find a place to stay and my soulmate and stuff. See you around, yeah? The Versa's parked just around the corner on the right."

"Wait!" Hiro said, grasping his sleeve as he rose. "You are on a quest! We will help."

"You will?" Jack asked.

"Yes!"

"Hey -- that's really decent of you," Jack said, touched. "You don't have to, you know, just because of the car."

"It is not because of the car," Hiro said seriously. "It is because you are different. Like us."

"Rock on. So like -- you wanna eat and then go? Let's eat and then go," Jack said, sitting down again. "Okay, cool. So, what brings you to New York?"

"Destiny," Hiro intoned. 

"Seriously," Jack agreed. "This is like a comic book or something."

"You like comic books?" Hiro asked.

"Yeah! I mean I read all of Sandman, JLA, love the new X-Men -- hey, I bet you read Fullmetal Alchemist, huh?" Jack asked.

"Fool...metal...?" Hiro looked perplexed.

"Hagane," Ando coughed.

"Right! Hagane no Renkin-something," Jack said. Hiro's eyes lit up.

Oh, New York was going to kick _ass_.


	9. Chapter 9

MATT, BENNETT, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO

Isaac had passed out on the bed after the third canvas, and Bennett had disgustedly left him to snore off his high while he and Parkman tried to make sense of the paintings. 

They were darker than the ones that Isaac had painted while he was in Texas, which themselves had been darker than the ones he was painting when he first discovered his gift. Those early ones had an almost serene quality to them, odd considering how much heroin must have been in his system at the time. Bennett sat on one of Isaac's stools while Parkman prowled back and forth around the edge of the mural, still anxious about stepping on it. 

The first painting was clearly the third in the sequence, timewise, and Bennett saw that the closer Isaac came to the end of his high, the closer he came in time to the present. He felt the urge to report on this, to research it, but now Primatech's resources were closed to him, and there was nobody to take his reports.

It occurred to him that if he could find Claude and Claire, if he could rally Isaac back and get hold of the Petrelli brothers, if he had a little money and some breathing room, he could form his own company. A rival company -- different from Primatech, better, with the benefit of his own experience. Mohinder Suresh had his father's drive and genius, even if he was young and impulsive, and if he had enough time Bennett was sure he could recruit him. He could have his job back, in a way, and more.

But his wife was dead, and his son, his own genetic legacy to the world, was dead. This would not be his old life reimagined; a new life, a different and difficult life. The lines of this new life were already sharper and harder -- he was procurer for a junkie, his partner was naive to the point of absurdity, and his first mission was to find a man he'd shot seven years ago and convince that man to give him his daughter back. 

He turned back to the paintings. They read like the page of a comic book, two square canvases and one oblong that fitted in below it. The first showed the facade of a building, with a blonde girl -- Claire, please let that be Claire -- standing at a high-up window. The building had a number but there was no street name, and it looked like any one of a thousand buildings in the city. 

The second was definitely Claire -- he recognised her backpack, though her face was turned away. She was standing in front of a wall covered in old, torn-up posters, looking upwards. 

He looked down at the third in the sequence, the first one Isaac had painted, and frowned. He'd been puzzling over it since Isaac had set it aside and moved on. 

"Hey," Parkman said suddenly. 

"What?" Bennett asked, not looking away from the painting.

"People are coming."

Bennett glanced at him. "Here?"

"I think so. At least two, because I'm hearing Japanese and English together."

Japanese could mean Nakamura. Shit.

Bennett held his finger to his lips and gestured Parkman forward, backing them both into a dark corner, between two huge racks of paintings. They were invisible here, but not unfindable; Bennett covered Parkman's mouth with one hand and looked him in the eye.

 _Think about disappearing,_ he said, silencing his own breathing. _Try to vanish. Clear your mind. Cover everything with a blanket, a dampening blanket --_

 _Like the Haitian,_ Parkman said. Bennett nodded. Parkman closed his eyes and screwed up his face in concentration. 

_Relax,_ Bennett said. _The more you try, the harder it is._

Parkman drew a deep breath behind Bennett's hand, and his shoulders fell an inch. His face smoothed, slowly. Bennett had no idea if it was working or not, but it was all they had. 

He made a note to himself to acquire a gun as soon as possible, if they survived the next ten minutes.

There was a knock, and then the door to Isaac's loft opened and he heard footsteps. To his surprise, the first voice he heard was young, a teenager's voice. 

"Hey, this is awesome!" the boy said. Footsteps on the stairs. Bennett tried to think invisible. "Dig this _art!_ "

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

ANDO, HIRO, AND JACK - LOWER MANHATTAN

"So who is this dude?" Jack said, leaning forward between the Versa's two front seats. He tilted his head to get a better view of the building they were parked in front of.

"Mr. Isaac," Hiro said. "He paints the future. He showed us you were coming."

"Yeah?"

"He painted the Versa, with you in it," Ando told him. "He can help us find the girl."

"But..." Hiro paused, almost tantalisingly.

"Is he like, horribly disfigured or something?" Jack asked, then realised perhaps he should modulate the gleeful fascination in his voice. 

"No, just cranky," Hiro said. 

"Crazy," Ando corrected.

"He's an artist, I kinda took that as a given," Jack said, climbing out of the Versa. He could feel Mr. Isaac, distantly, like an itch on the edge of his vision. He knew that didn't make sense, but neither did a high-school senior who could make a living finding money other people had lost. 

"We will introduce you," Ando said, but Jack noticed that both men stood subtly behind him as they walked into the building and took the elevator up to the loft. 

Something else tugged on his senses briefly as they walked down the hallway, but his excitement and the overwhelming sense of Mr. Isaac drove it out of his mind. Hiro gestured to a door and Jack knocked; when there was no answer, Ando tried the handle. The door swung open.

"Hey, this is awesome!" Jack said, taking in the carts and worktables covered in paint, the canvases, the easels, the brushes in jars. "Dig this _art!_ "

"Maybe Mr. Isaac is out," Hiro said. He sounded kind of hopeful. 

"No, he's over there," Jack said, jerking his head at the bed in a corner of the loft. He didn't bother looking; he knew the bed was there, and so was Isaac. This close, he understood that Mr. Isaac was actually Isaac Mendez, and that there was something wrong in his body, something you shouldn't find there. 

Time enough for that later, though. Jack hardly even had eyes for the enormous mural on the floor, beginning to be worn down by feet and blotched by spilled paint. His attention was focused on the paintings on easels nearby. So many paintings, in fact, racks and racks of them. 

"This is her," he breathed, pointing to one of the ones hanging on a giant rack on the wall. It was a girl's face, hair flying around it, panicked but still beautiful. "This is the girl I'm supposed to find."

"This girl?" Hiro asked, pointing to another painting. Yes, that was her too, though he couldn't see her face. Definitely her.

"Yeah, that girl -- " Jack paused. Next to the painting was an enormous canvas, the scene of a murder. A man stood over a girl in a cheerleader's uniform, blood pooling around her head, her limbs askew. He glanced at Hiro, who had a look of tremendous sadness on his face. 

"But that's not her," Jack said suddenly. He pointed to the dead girl in the painting. "That happened, but that's not her. That's like, another girl. Not the one I'm looking for."

"She is cheerleader," Hiro said. "In Texas. We saved her. Peter Petrelli saved her. We did not save that one," he added, pointing to the dead girl.

"I'm sorry," Jack said. He turned back to a trio of paintings that hardly looked dry yet. "This is her too. See, here, in the window. Did he know we were coming, your painter dude?"

"No," Ando replied. He had taken up a position far away from Jack and Hiro, near the sleeping Isaac. "Hiro, this is very bad," he added, holding up a hypodermic syringe. 

"But -- " Hiro frowned. "He paints without the drugs!"

"Guess not," Jack said softly. 

"Do these paintings help?" Hiro asked.

"Yeah, sort of -- I know what building to look for now," Jack said. "I can find it, I think. Not from here..." he squinted. "She's still there. In this one. She's not here yet," he said, pointing to the second painting. 

"This is Unmei," Hiro said. 

"Unmei?" Jack asked.

"Destiny."

"Unmei. I like that," Jack said. He crouched in front of the third painting. It showed him -- yeah, that was him, very cool -- standing with the girl, holding her hand, looking through a window. No, a glass observation wall, into a hospital room. Nearby he saw a dark-haired man he recognised from his vision -- that was the angel, the one he saw sitting with his girl. The figure on the bed could have been a man or a woman. The shadows in the dark room made it uncertain; all Jack could make out was a swath of bandages and a face in shadow.

"That is Peter Petrelli," Hiro said, pointing to the angel. 

"I'd like to meet him," Jack murmured, standing and dusting off his jeans. "Listen, um, I don't think we need to wake the dude up, do you?"

"Can you find her from this?" Hiro asked. "In Texas?"

"She's not in Texas anymore. She's definitely here," Jack said. "And if she's here I can find her." He laughed a little. "My momma didn't raise no fool, I can do anything if I've got the right tools..."

Hiro gave him a perplexed look. 

"I just need to get a fix on that building," Jack mused.

"How?" Ando asked. Jack thought hard about it, then grinned. 

"Tomorrow," he said, "we're going to the Empire State Building."

***

MATT AND MR. BENNETT - ISAAC'S STUDIO

"It worked," Matt said excitedly after the trio of men had left. "It worked, didn't it? I hid us, didn't I?"

"I think so," Bennett said, pushing past him and back out into the studio. "The boy's a Sector, and he didn't know we were here." 

"A what?" Matt asked, confused.

"It's the technical term. He's a Finder, he finds things. Somehow they know where things are."

"What kind of things?"

"Everything," Bennett replied. "They know where everything is. They find what's lost. I've known two. They're pretty useful, when they don't go insane."

"Insane?" Matt asked. He had seriously considered the idea that someday what he did would make him crazy, but the idea that other people had already gone insane from their talents...that was deeply scary. 

"We had one who worked for the company for years, finding people," Bennett said. "She wasn't very strong, it was hit-and-miss, but give her ten newspapers a day and two pots of coffee and she was pretty happy, looking for them. Then one day she shot herself."

"Why?"

"Apparently she found something she didn't like."

"That's not funny," Matt said, horrified.

"I'm not laughing," Bennett replied, searching the countertops of Isaac's studio for something. "People like you, people like that boy, learn things that nobody's ever supposed to know. Humanity thinks it wants knowledge but what it really wants is the safe parts, with the scary horror-movie scenes edited out. It doesn't want to find the dark little crevices of the human mind."

Matt thought about Janice, and how panicked she'd been when she thought he'd found out about the affair. What if it had turned out that she really _didn't_ love him, instead of him discovering that she still did? He might have killed her. He'd seen too many domestic spats gone bad to think he was above it. 

"My job is to make sure those hidden places stay hidden," Bennett said.

"Was," Matt reminded him. Bennett frowned.

"Was," he said softly. "Of course."

He finally found what he was looking for -- a digital camera -- and he began snapping photos of the paintings around the room. 

"You said you knew two of them," Matt said. "Two Finders. What happened to the other one?" 

"Are you familiar with the term 'hoarder'?" Bennett asked. 

"Yeah -- people who can't stop collecting stuff. Bags of bottlecaps, piles of magazines. So what?"

"Finders naturally think that if they've found it, it must be important. They start to collect what they've found, just in case. It piles up, fills up bags, boxes, rooms..." Bennett tucked the camera in his pocket. "It's easy to lose control. I'm sure you know that. When we found him, he was living in the ten square feet of kitchen space that wasn't filled with everything he'd found. It took one of our cleaner teams two weeks to empty his house."

"What happened to him?"

A muscle jumped in Bennett's jaw. "we're done here. We'd better find a place to sleep tonight. In the morning we're going to let that boy lead us straight to Claire."

***

TED SPRAGUE AND HANA GITELMAN - UPSTATE NEW YORK

Ted woke to the sensation of something cool and damp on his face. It felt good, and he leaned into it as it rubbed his cheeks. Someone chuckled, somewhere in the distance. Perhaps it was some kind of giant cat, licking him...

"Good evening, Ted," said a voice, and he opened his eyes. He recognised the woman standing in front of him, but he couldn't place her name. Everything seemed very distant and bright. 

"Hi," he said, and his tongue felt unfamiliar in his mouth. "Where am I?"

"Outside of Buffalo," she replied, dipping a washcloth into a bucket of water and wringing it out. Oh, so that was what was on his face. He closed his eyes as she smoothed it down one cheek. "I've dosed you with Ketamine," she continued. "That's why you feel drugged. You are."

"Oh," he said.

"Your power is linked to your emotions," she continued. "The Ketamine helps you separate what you think and feel from what your body does. Little trick I picked up from the company's databases."

"The company," he repeated. He got a distant stab of rage, but he couldn't be bothered to actually feel it. 

"I waited for days to get in and bring you out. Parkman's already gone," she said. "He's covered his tracks pretty well. I don't know where he is."

"Where are we?"

"You've already asked," she said. "Outside of Buffalo."

"Oh." He thought hard. "Why did you save me?"

"Nobody deserves to spend their life asleep on a slab," she replied. "Besides, I can still use you."

***

THE HAITIAN - OAXACA, MEXICO

It took him some time, but he finally tracked her; the further south you went, the fewer white people there were, and a pretty blonde woman stood out like a sore thumb, even if she knew the area and its customs. He had determination on his side; this was a request of Claire's grandmother, and the Haitian had a deep respect for that woman. 

He had, in one way or another, known Claire since she was an infant. His first visit to the Bennett house had been to minister to Mr. Bennett's wife, and after that was done he had paused in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot.

"Thank you," Bennett had told him. "I appreciate this deeply. Is there anything else you need?"

You could say many unflattering things about Bennett, but you could say many unflattering things about anyone. The Haitian was still impressed that, like the professor, Bennett treated him like a man. 

He pointed in the direction of the nursery, and turned his hands up questioningly. Bennett frowned.

"My daughter?" he'd asked. When he got a nod in reply, his frown deepened. "What about her? You want to see her?"

The Haitian held his hands behind his back, and the frown lessened.

"You'd like to meet Claire," he'd said, smiling. "That's all. Of course."

In another few years, Claude would vanish into thin air, for all most of Primatech knew, and the Haitian would step into his shoes. From that hour on he heard about Claire and Lyle all the time, but Bennett was not making the mistake with the Haitian that he'd made with his previous partner. He never met Bennett's family, except to minister to Mrs. Bennett. Until Claire was sixteen, she was mostly a concept and the memory of a pretty, wispy-haired infant sleeping thumb-in-mouth in a sunny nursery. 

However terrible a man Bennett was, he'd been a good father, and Mrs. Bennett a good mother. This woman, who left her baby to die in a fire, who had stolen money from her own blood, did not deserve to be a mother. 

He had come to the decision, his first few years in America, that he would not be anyone's pawn. In this game, the best way to do that was to allow them to think that you were. Bennett thought he was a good partner, Primatech a good employee, Mrs. Petrelli a loyal servant, Claire a protector. And he was those things. At times.

But he had also come to be his own judge of what was right, and that was why Claire still remembered things she shouldn't, why he was here and not still employed by Primatech. And he knew that Meredith Gordon could not be allowed to trouble Claire any further. 

He looked down at her, lying on the hotel bed, drugged and sleeping. This would take time, but she wouldn't wake for hours, so time he had. He would leave her a fair share of the money, so that she wouldn't be totally destitute; what had she offered Claire, half of fifty thousand dollars? That ought to suffice. 

In the meantime, he placed his hand over her forehead and began to work. 

He would have to start with the pregnancy...

***

JESSICA, DL, AND MICAH - THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING

Micah had brought his laptop with him to New York, and after Jessica came home that night he asked if she was going to come with them to the Empire State Building the next day. 

"You don't have class on Saturdays, do you?" he'd asked plaintively. Jessica was not the most maternal of women, but Micah was her son and really, she was doing this all for him. And he was pretty hard to resist when he gave her puppy eyes.

"Of course, sweetie," she said. "Let's go early, okay? We'll skip the big lines."

"I'll get the tickets!" Micah said excitedly, and ten minutes later his laptop was emailing the Kinkos across the street to print out tickets. She definitely had to figure out a way to get Micah's powers under her direct control. 

So here they stood, Jessica drinking a coffee to stay awake, DL and Micah arguing about whether or not a penny thrown from the observatory would kill someone if it hit them in the head, and a crowd of other people all ooh-ing and aaah-ing over the view of the city. A gaggle of kids with their mom, two Japanese tourists with some guy who was probably their interpreter, a tour group of seniors, a middle-aged businessman who probably worked on some lower floor of the building. 

Maybe they should move to New York. DL could get a better job, and she could definitely find gainful employment. She'd talk to Linderman about it. Maybe he was looking to expand his east coast influence past one future congressman. 

Today Nathan was supposed to make his big Union speech. She wanted to see that, somehow; perhaps she could convince DL to get lunch somewhere that had a television in the bar.

The world was just full of possibilities, horizons as wide as the view from the top, and only Niki was standing in her way.

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - _HELLO! MANHATTAN_ STUDIOS - MANHATTAN

"AND WE'RE BACK IN FIVE, FOUR," _three, two, one..._

"Welcome back to _Hello! Manhattan_ , coming to you live from our studios in the Empire State Building. I'm Emma Andrews, and I'm talking today with Nathan Petrelli, congressional candidate here in New York City," said the anchor, who had told him to call her Emma. Nathan smiled and nodded at the camera. "Now, Mr. Petrelli, we've talked a little bit about politics and a little bit about the state of New York City as it stands. But I'd like to ask you a little bit about your family as well."

Aw, crap. He knew it was coming, knew it had to have been coming, but he was hoping to distract her somehow. 

"You've spoken out recently on the topic of mental illness, because your father suffered from it all his life," she said, looking deeply sympathetic. "I understand that your brother has recently been having difficulties as well?"

At least it wasn't about Heidi.

"Peter's a good kid," Nathan said with a grin. "You know, when you run for political office, you don't run alone -- you bring your family and your friends with you. I won't lie, it's a stressful time. We all cope with that in different ways."

"But your brother -- "

"Is thriving," he cut her off, trying not to be sharp about it. "He's spending time with family, and recuperating from a fairly serious bout with the flu."

"Do you think all this has distracted you from your campaign?"

Nathan laughed. "I don't think of my family as a distraction from politics, that's pretty ruthless. They're right there with me, supporting me. I can care about my city and my family at the same time -- one's really an extension of the other."

"A lovely sentiment," she agreed, smiling. Her eyes darted to his lapel, and he tried not to grin. Here it came...

"I have one more question before we let you go," she said, leaning forward. "I've been dying to ask this all morning, but what's that pin on your lapel?"

Nathan looked down. "What, this?"

He tilted his body slightly so that the camera could get a better view of the little enameled American flag, with the Superman pin right below it.

"Is that a Superman symbol I see?" she laughed. "Are you a comic-book fan, Mr. Petrelli? That's one way to get younger voters to fall in line!"

"There are many reasons to support the Petrelli campaign," Nathan said. "I wouldn't think a Superman pin on its own would convince our smart young voters. This is actually a gift from one of my volunteers."

"Really! They must think you're something very special."

"You know," Nathan said, relishing the moment, "you can't get anywhere in politics without people, and my volunteers are especially important to me. They're so passionate about what we can accomplish. I guess they believe I'm the man for the job."

"That's wonderful," said Emma. "So, Nathan "Superman" Petrelli, what can we expect from you from here on out?"

"Well, you'll be seeing a lot of me in the next three days, right up until the election," Nathan said with a grin. "I'll be speaking at noon today, at a rally near here, actually, and I hope everyone can tune in for at least a few minutes. We'll also have a live streaming radio broadcast, and podcast available once the rally ends..."

***

JACK, ANDO, AND HIRO - THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING

Jack's head began to buzz unpleasantly almost as soon as they reached the observatory at the top of the Empire State Building. He looked around at the other people on the deck, but they all seemed innocent enough. He could feel their wants and needs, but in a muffled sort of way, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer masses of people down below in the city. 

He stood as close as he could to the edge of the observation deck, scanning the city, trying to focus on the building he'd seen in the painting yesterday. They were stripped of any assistance, up here; Hiro'd had to leave his sword behind, since there were security checkpoints that definitely did not allow antique katanas through their gates. Jack left his weed behind for the same reason, despite the fact that he was not entirely comfortable with heights and could _really_ use a smoke right about now. Even a cigarette would be okay.

"Scuse me," he said to the businessman in the groovy retro glasses who was standing nearby. "Can I bum a smoke?"

The man looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Sorry, I don't smoke."

"It's cool," Jack said. "Thanks anyway." 

The fascist assholes who ran things probably didn't let you smoke up here anyway. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind again. 

Southwest. Not very far, even. Southwest -- 

_Claire._

The word was so sharp in his head that he knew he didn't think it himself. His eyes flew open and he turned around, expecting someone behind him, whispering in his ear. Nope; just the couple with their adorable little kid (who reminded him of the twins) and near them, the businessman. Further off were a few tour groups, but they were just a dim white noise at the edge of his senses.

He wished all these people would leave, it would be so much easier. He also wished the janitorial staff would clean more thoroughly, because there were like eight million camera lenscaps and coins and crumpled up tickets and pens and -- 

He clutched his head, doubling over, and Ando and Hiro were there immediately, holding his shoulders, asking if he was okay. 

"I'm all right, I'm cool," he managed, as a group of senior citizens began to drift over to see what the fuss was. Jesus, he needed a smoke. "Tell them to leave me alone."

"You! He is fine! All of you, give him air!" Ando shouted, and while Jack appreciated the thought, every word was like a nail in his brain. He moaned and collapsed, actually grateful for the cool ground beneath his cheek, even if it was totally disgusting. 

Southwest, Greenwich Village. Right right leftleft rightleftleft parking garage watch out he's _following you_...

Jack passed out. 

Hiro and Ando said later how nice it was of the businessman to call for help and make sure everyone else stayed away while they got Jack onto a stretcher and took him to the medical station. It wasn't serious; Jack told the EMTs that he hadn't eaten any breakfast and it was probably just low blood sugar, which they bought because it made their job easier and it meant they could get him an OJ, patch up the scratches on his cheek, and send him off. 

Such a nice businessman. And he wouldn't accept any money or even tell them who he was.


	10. Chapter 10

TED SPRAGUE AND HANA GITELMAN - UPSTATE NEW YORK

When Ted woke again his mind was clearer, just clear enough for an inkling of panic about where he was and why.

"It's all right," Hana said, leaning over him. "You're safe, remember?"

He thought for a minute, then sighed with relief. "Buffalo, right?'

She smiled. "That's right. How do you feel?"

"Clearer."

"I'm taking you down to low doses. If you can keep your head, you'll be off altogether by tomorrow."

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome. Are you hungry?"

He nodded, pushing himself upright on the bed. There was a kitchen counter nearby -- wherever they were was pretty tiny -- and Hana went to a bowl on the counter, taking out some cellophane-wrapped objects and setting them on the bed.

"I'm not a cook," she said, by way of explanation. He picked up the protein bars and unwrapped one, devouring it. "I couldn't get much information out of Primatech, in Texas; did you manage?"

"Bennett said he didn't do this to us," Ted said. Her small apartment was filled with electronic equipment, some of it obviously home-modified. There were at least three melted-looking wireless modems, and some kind of odd contraption at the desk, a pair of straps, one with an ethernet cord attached to it and the other with a mouse cable. 

"Do you believe him?" Hana asked. 

"I don't know."

"Ignorance is a beginning," she sighed. 

"I don't know what to do," he continued, feeling distantly sad. "I don't know what they did to me."

"It's all right," she replied. "Leave it to me. I know what to do."

"What's that?" he asked. 

"Kill them all."

***

MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

"His name is Jack Baker," Bennett said, holding on while Parkman steered expertly through New York City traffic. "He's traveling with two Japanese men -- they might be from a sector of Primatech in Japan. I didn't get their names. _Jesus look out --_ "

"Will you stop freaking out?" Parkman barked, narrowly avoiding death by public bus. "I've been driving in LA for years, I know what I'm doing."

The Versa jerked to the right and Parkman followed it; then it turned left across two lanes of traffic and Parkman swore, whipping the car back into the left lane.

"Are they really bad drivers or do they know we're following them?" he asked. 

"Just keep with them," Bennett ordered. "You've got the license plate?"

"I'm a cop, Bennett."

"You were."

Bennett saw his sting hit home; served Parkman right for that crack about Bennett's job earlier. Then they swerved suddenly, and he regretted taunting the other man. 

"Blue Nissan Versa, blond teen male driving, two passengers, mid-twenties, black hair, Asian," Parkman rattled off. He tossed a slip of paper to Bennett, with the licence plates for the Versa written on it. 

"If these men are from Yamagato, it's vital we find Claire before they do," Bennett continued. "If they know she's alive they'll take her in."

"Like you did to me," Parkman said. Bennett gripped the dashboard as they slid around a truck and back in with inches to spare.

"I was serving the common good," Bennett replied. 

"By abducting me, getting me in trouble with my wife -- "

"Oh come _on_ ," Bennett replied. "So you had a fight with your wife. I'm talking about not letting dangerous people like Ted Sprague loose on society to _kill_ their wives."

"But you let him go, the first time you brought him in."

"We couldn't see that he was showing any power. He manifested after we'd already dealt with him."

The Versa, ahead of them, pulled sharply down a side street. Parkman followed, cutting off a taxi, and then rolled to a stop, confused. 

The street was quiet, not much more than an alley, and it dead-ended in a tight circular turnaround. The Versa was gone. 

"Dammit!" Parkman pounded on the steering wheel. "How did they do that?"

***

JACK, ANDO, AND HIRO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

When Hiro told him to turn left, Jack knew they were going the wrong way. He turned anyway, because he trusted Hiro -- how could anyone not trust Hiro? -- and because Hiro's grip on his shoulder told Jack that this was a man with a plan.

As soon as he turned into the side-street, there was an odd, muted noise, like a fingersnap. Jack didn't pay much attention, however, because they were in a dead-end. He thought he could probably pull over the Versa and make a run for it on foot from whoever was following them, but instead Hiro said "Stop the car."

Jack obediently braked. Then he looked at Ando, in the seat next to him. Then he screamed a little. 

Ando was frozen, completely stiff and still, one hand raised to cover his eyes, the other gripping the seat arm tightly. His eyes themselves were wide open, and his mouth open just a little, as if he couldn't believe what was happening.

"It is groovy," Hiro said. "I freeze time."

Jack turned around and saw, past Hiro, the frozen cars at the mouth of the street. There was even a dude on the sidewalk with his dog, the dog's leg lifted, and the _pee was hanging in midair._

"We turn around," Hiro said soothingly. "We drive away. Then I unfreeze time. Per-fect getaway."

Jack swallowed, slowly easing his foot off the brake and circling the turnaround. He pulled through traffic at an angle, carefully, and eased the Versa slowly through the red light at the intersection. 

"If you start time again while I'm in traffic, we're so gonna get killed," he said. "Just lemme find a parking space, okay?"

Hiro laughed, and Jack realised how funny it really was -- the time-traveler stopped time just long enough for the guy who knows where everything is to find a parking spot. 

"Can you find the cheerleader?" Hiro asked. 

"I...I know the general kinda direction," Jack said. "Greenwich village. You think we could kind of prowl around until I see it?"

"Big rally this afternoon, for Mr. Petrelli," Hiro said. "We look for a while, then go to the rally. Okay?"

"Okay," Jack agreed. He'd had about enough excitement for one day, really. "You know, I really think I need something like your sword. Something to focus me, you know?"

"It is very special," Hiro said. "It belonged to a hero."

"Still does," Jack answered. "Kinda impractical sometimes, though. I don't know, it's not like I really have some kind of dramatic cultural history to draw on, you know? I'm a white kid from the burbs."

"Burbs?"

"Suburbs. Boringsville," Jack added. "When kids my age want to feel unique they just go get a tattoo or something."

Then he paused. Hiro looked at him inquiringly.

"Hey, Hiro," he said. "Do you think you could write something in Kanji for me?"

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

PETER PETRELLI - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Peter half-expected that Claude would show up for the rally that afternoon; it would be typical of him, if anything was typical of Claude. Though come to think of it, seeing that their workout lasted until two in the morning, it would be more typical of Claude to sleep the hell through it. 

_He_ had to go, of course, because Nathan was embarking on a new My Brother Is Not A Nut Job phase of his campaign, and it was good for Peter to be seen publicly, healthy, and apparently sane. 

Nathan had trotted out the whole family for the occasion -- Heidi, up onstage next to Nathan's top aides, and the boys down in the front row, sandwiched between Uncle Peter and Grandma. It was the first time Heidi had been at a rally; apparently Nathan was pulling out all the big guns for the last few days before the election. He was still trailing by two points. 

Nathan was talking about unions or something, Peter really couldn't keep track of all the stuff he was supposed to be for or against. He busied himself making sure the boys didn't disrupt anything, and besides Nathan loved it when the reporters took pictures of him or his mom with the kids. Made them look like a caring happy family or something. 

Peter wished, really, that he was anywhere but here -- at the safehouse with Claire, at the factory with Claude, even on the rooftop of the Deveaux building, alone, looking through the decorative oval at the city. 

He reached over and pulled one of his nephews onto his lap to stop the kid from fidgeting, just as there was a rustling noise behind him. He turned around to see Hiro and Ando seating themselves in the second row, near enough that Hiro could lean over Peter's shoulder and whisper in his ear.

"Sorry we are late," he said.

"It's cool, I don't think Nathan noticed," Peter whispered back, jerking his chin at Nathan. His brother was speaking on, oblivious, really getting into the swing of things now.

"We have new quest," Hiro said. "Made a new friend, Jack Bakeru."

"Yeah? Where's your sword?"

"Left with him. Very safe there," Hiro added. 

"Sure."

"How is Mr. Mohinder?"

"No change."

Mom leaned across the seats and shushed Peter, gesturing at Nathan. Hiro made a hilariously apologetic face and sat back immediately. Peter sighed. There must be something better to do than listen to Nathan.

Cautiously, hesitantly, he thought about the cop he'd met in Texas, the one who could read minds. It was just practice, he told himself, practice in control. And there was a soft murmuring on the edge of his thoughts, rising slightly when he focused on it -- of course. Hiro, thinking in Japanese.

He shifted his focus and nearly flinched; his nephew's thoughts, about how boredboredbored he was, nearly smacked him in the face. Apparently Mom had promised his nephews that Peter would take them out for ice cream afterwards, which she had neglected to warn him about. Nice, Ma.

Mom's thoughts were much more complicated, hard to comprehend. She was worried, worried about a lot -- Peter, Heidi, Claire, worried about where the Haitian had gone. And about Nathan. Such a dangerous job, politics. What if someone shot him some day, like they did poor Moscone in '78? Nathan wasn't bulletproof and _oh god what was he doing?_

Peter looked up at Nathan, refocusing on the speech just in time for him to hear Nathan say "Solid Union values for a solid Union town."

Oh. 

There was going to be _shouting_ later.

***

JACK BAKER - PINS AND NEEDLES TATTOO PARLOR - LOWER MANHATTAN

"So, what do you think?" Mel asked, cocking one leg up onto the chair and chewing on a bite of apple. She nodded her head at the blond boy standing at the front of the shop.

"Somethin' Japanese," Pins replied. He pulled at a piercing thoughtfully. "Bet you five bucks."

"Nah. I bet you he gets somethin' tribal," Mel replied. Pins jumped down off his chair and walked to the counter, where the boy was studying their photo book.

"Thinkin' of gettin' a tattoo?" he asked. 

"Totally," the boy said, engrossed in a full-back portrait of a naked woman wrapped in very revealing veils. "Dude, this is awesome."

"Guess so, if you like naked chicks in places you can't see 'em," Pins replied. 

"Well, it's awesome for other people," the kid said. "I'm Jack."

"I'm called Pins. Pleasure's all mine. You got an idea of what you want?"

"Yeah..." Jack dug in his back and came up with a piece of white paper, on which someone had written in Japanese. Pins glanced at Mel, who rolled her eyes and dug in her pocket for five bucks, tucking it in the pocket of his coat. 

"You sure you know what this says? We don't give money back if it turns out it means Pretty Princess," Pins said.

"I'm sure," Jack replied, and smiled at Pins so confidently that it took him a moment to recover. "How much to put it here?" he added, indicating the inside of his left wrist.

"Seriously, man, wrists hurt," Pins said. "You sure you want to go that hardcore for your first tatt?"

"I'm sure," Jack answered. "The pain won't be an issue."

Pins didn't know what he meant until he strapped the kid's hand down and started work. He was pretty impressed by how still Jack was holding -- he didn't even grunt or twitch -- until he looked up and saw him staring at the ceiling, eyes rolled back in his head. He looked like he was in some kind of trance or something. His lips moved but he didn't make any noise, and when Pins was done he set the machine down and waited. After a few minutes, the kid blinked and came down from wherever he'd been. He looked at the tattoo, covered in its clear plastic dressing, and grinned.

"Thanks," he said. "That was perfect. Ooh," he added, as he moved his wrist. "You're right, that tingles a little."

Pins, bewildered, let the kid pay and almost let him get out the door before he stopped him.

"Hey," he said, and Jack turned around. "What's that mean, anyway?"

"It's a verb," Jack said. " _Find_. It's pronounced _hirou_."

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - THE SAFE HOUSE

"Oh man," Peter said, listening to the shouting coming from the kitchen. "They could be at this for _hours._ "

"Aren't you worried?" Claire asked, curled up in a ball on the couch. She looked frightened, and Peter supposed he shouldn't blame her; Mom and Nathan were really getting into it. 

"Well, I kinda would be, except this is like...it's like playing ping-pong, for them," he said. "They never make it personal, you know? It's politics."

"But they're shouting."

"Yeah. Clears the head," Peter replied. 

"Oh," Claire said.

"Listen, it's just what we do sometimes. It never goes anywhere. I mean, nobody's going to disown anybody because of it."

"Why's she so mad, anyway? It was a good speech, I listened to the podcast," Claire said.

"Apparently Nathan just came out as a Union candidate," Peter said. 

"What's that mean?"

"In politics you have to make sure that everyone likes you, so you're not supposed to take a really strong view of anything unless you can back it up with popularity numbers," Peter said. "The guy running against him has been the Union candidate for years. Nathan's trying to steal his constituency. And it's really risky, because not everyone likes the unions. So if the unions stick with the other guy, Nathan just lost three...maybe four points."

" _This is so typical of you, Nathan!_ " his mother shouted from the other room. " _So stubborn!_ "

" _Gee, Ma, I wonder where I get that!_ " Nathan shouted back. Peter laughed.

"They're winding down now. When they start calling each other names, it'll end soon."

"Are you worried he's going to lose?" Claire asked. Peter glanced back at the kitchen.

"Nathan doesn't take stupid risks," Peter said. "If he did this, he's gotta be pretty confident."

He stood and began reaching for his messenger bag and shoes, tossing his wallet into the bag.

"Going somewhere?" Claire asked. 

"Yeah -- more training. I'll be back earlier though, I think. Maybe in time for dinner."

"Wish I could go with you."

Peter looked at her, trying to seem as serious as possible. "It's not safe for you."

"I'm the indestructible girl. What's going to happen?"

"It won't be forever. Promise you that. Just sit tight for now, okay?" Peter said. He started to say that it would make Nathan absolutely nuts if she disappeared, but she didn't need that kind of guilt trip and she didn't seem like she was really considering it. "Seeya later."

He kissed her cheek, ruffled her hair, and left, oddly pleased with the world. Nathan and Mom at each others' throats meant neither of them were worrying about him. Claude, who was a pain in the ass but at least a consistent pain in the ass, was waiting for him. He thought they really were making progress, finally.

He didn't see the slight figure who stood at the window watching him go, and he definitely didn't look back in time to see someone drop from the fifth floor window to the ground. 

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC  
TEN YEARS AGO

"Heya, Pete."

Peter didn't look up. He didn't have to, and anyway Nathan wasn't expecting it. He kept staring at his magazine, though he wasn't really reading it. He was studying a chip in the fingernail polish on his left thumb.

Springs creaked as Nathan sat on the end of the bed, then leaned back and flopped, arms above head, staring at the ceiling. Peter watched him over the edge of the magazine propped on his knees. 

"Man, there are days I miss the Navy," Nathan said, which was kind of a weird non sequitur until he continued. "Everything's so clean-cut in the military. There's procedures for everything."

"Dad told you about our fight," Peter said. 

"Mom, actually."

"Did she call you up and have you come all the way out just to -- "

"Shut up a minute, would you?" Nathan said pleasantly. Peter went back to studying his thumbnail. They sat in silence for a while. "I came up to tell everyone that Heidi and I got engaged. Missed your chance with her, Peter," he added with a grin. Peter smiled back, a little. 

"Congratulations. Golden son wins again," he said. 

"Sorry. Bad timing on my part. So what's up with you and Dad?"

"I think he's going nuts. He's really paranoid, you know."

"He's Dad."

"Yeah, it's just..." Peter shrugged. "He doesn't want me to go out with Vicki any more. Doesn't want me to go to parties. Some of the things he says, it's like he's been following me or something."

"Nobody wants you to go out with Vicki anymore," Nathan pointed out. "I thought that was kinda why you were doing it."

He sat up and turned to face Peter, taking away the magazine and setting it on the side-table. "I'm not here from Dad, Peter. I'm not here from Mom, and I'm not here to punish you or anything, okay? It's just Nathan and Peter."

"Okay," Peter said, shifting uncomfortably. It freaked him out when Nathan acted like a human being.

"You sleeping with Vicki?"

"Yeah."

"You using condoms?"

"I'm not a moron."

Nathan shook his head. "Nobody knows you anymore, Peter, so we have to ask. It's fine, it's just -- I want to know, okay?"

"Fine. Yeah, and Vick's on the pill."

"You doing drugs? Everybody knows she does."

"No."

"Not even pot?"

Peter laughed. "Jesus, Nathan, you sound like a public service announcement."

"Are you?"

Peter shrugged. "I have a beer once in a while. That's it. The drugs creep me out, okay?"

"What does she do?"

"I don't know. Lots of stuff."

"Peter, I'm going to ask you one favor." Nathan looked him in the eye. He looked so serious in his suit and tie and wing-tip shoes; it was hard for Peter to think of Nathan as a lawyer, but he guessed he could get used to it. "I'll jump into this. I know how to smooth it over and I can take the heat better than you can. I'm on your side. But I want you to dump Vicki. Not because I think she's going to make you do anything you don't want to, because for anyone to do that would take some kind of act of God. I want you to dump her because she's going to get in trouble and she's going to drag you down into it with her. You're going to get arrested as an accessory someday, and I don't want to bail you out of jail."

Peter bit his lip. 

"I know you're trying to piss Dad off because you're pissed off at him, but you're pissing me off too, and I'm tired of it," Nathan said. 

"Sorry," Peter muttered.

"You gonna dump this girl?"

"Guess so."

"You want to annoy Dad, just tell him what you think of him," Nathan said, grinning. "Who knows, maybe you'll make a difference."

"Nathan..." Peter grabbed his arm as he stood to leave. "Hang on."

Nathan looked down at him. "What?"

"Dad..." Peter frowned. "Sometimes I wonder if he's really okay, you know? If he's right, mentally. Sometimes I think he sees things. Things that aren't there."

Nathan patted his shoulder. "Dad's fine, Peter. Let it go. You want to get out of the house more, come down and stay with us for a weekend, clear your head."

"Sure," Peter said, frowning. He could do this. "Okay."

"I'll go make things right with Dad."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

"Tryin' something different today," Claude said, setting two chairs in the middle of the floor. He gestured Peter into one of them and turned the other around backwards, resting his arms on the back of the chair as he sat. Peter waited impatiently for what was going to happen next. 

"Calm down, nobody's hitting anyone tonight," Claude said, and Peter forced himself to stop fidgeting. "You've come as far as you will without us workin' on your mind a bit more. Isn't going to be pleasant for either of us."

"I thought I was doing okay," Peter said.

"Okay enough to be a danger to me, and I don't heal like you do. Not as young as you, either," Claude added. There were butterfly bandages on the wound on his head; Peter wondered if he'd done them himself or gone to an emergency room. 

"Why don't you?" Peter asked. "Heal, I mean. You're an Empath, you can pick it up from me. You could heal if you wanted, right?"

"Doesn't work that way for me," Claude answered. 

"How does it work, then?"

"D'you want my life's story or d'you want to keep from blowing up New York?" Claude asked, annoyed. Peter ducked his head. "You need to learn to control your reactions up here," he said, tapping his own head. "I don't care how, it's just got to be done."

"You did it by running away," Peter said.

"Why're you so obsessed with me?" Claude asked. "I've told you before. I'm nobody."

"You're the only other Empath I've ever met," Peter said. 

"You've met that Sylar bloke."

"He's not like us," Peter hissed.

"Why, because he's a killer? You don't know I'm not," Claude pointed out. "We aren't an us, Petrelli."

"Just tell me how you do it. There has to be more than simply not ever talking to people. You can't have spent your whole life living in abandoned factories."

He saw Claude's nostrils flare and knew he'd hit home. Claude hadn't realised that Peter knew he lived here. 

"We're not the _same_ ," Claude insisted. "It doesn't work in the same way. You're asking how I'd make apple juice out of oranges."

"You're my teacher," Peter said. "Teach me."

"You're my student. Shut up so I can."

"If you can stop yourself from taking my power, you can teach me how," Peter said stubbornly. Claude gave him a long, measured look.

"Don't get airs," he said, "But you're the highest-level sensitive I've ever come across. Probably the highest anyone's ever been. My generation, the first generation as far as anyone knows, we're not as powerful even as the weaker young'uns are. The mutation breeds true. You just prance through life, pickin' up power, no clue what to do with it. I've got to sing for my supper, boy."

"What does that mean?"

"See one, do one, teach one," Claude replied. "You want to know why it's important to me, this? Teaching? I have to learn power. And to do that I have to teach."

Peter studied him. He hadn't known Claude long, but he realised that this was the most vulnerable the man had been in a long time -- years, perhaps decades. This was a secret that no-one else knew. 

"I learned dampening from an old student. Two Empaths, pickin' up on each other, that's playing with fire. Sets up links neither of us want to have. That's how I control what you take from me, and what I take from you. Or would, eventually."

"Can you teach me that?" Peter asked. "Dampening?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Is that why we're here?"

"You're not going to master it in a week. If you survive this, I'll give you a pat on the head and a biscuit and we'll see, eh?" Claude said. "Have I answered all your questions or shall we just go on as we have and in a few days New York will be a radioactive wasteland?"

"Fine," Peter leaned back and crossed his arms. Claude rubbed his forehead, clearly annoyed.

"You don't want to do the easy way and cut your leash, fine," he said. "If your thoughts trigger your powers, then you've got to learn to control your thoughts. You can't react on impulse anymore. You haven't got that option. And you're far too fond of doing it anyway."

Peter bridled at this...then immediately saw what Claude meant. Claude smiled.

"You see?" he said.

"All right, I'm trying," Peter muttered. 

"Do more than try. What do I matter to you? Why d'you care what I think? Because I'm another Empath? Because you care what everyone thinks? Who do you think you're goin' to impress?"

Peter bit his lip, trying to sort out the immediate reactions he had to each of the questions. He found himself thinking of his father, without knowing why. 

Something flickered behind Claude, and Peter looked up. 

He jerked back with a yelp almost before he knew what was happening; standing behind Claude was a figure half-shadowed, flickering as though it were a cheap movie projection. He recognised the face -- those glasses -- 

The chair tipped over backwards and Peter sprawled on the ground, cracking his head on the cement. He saw stars for a second, thought of Claire, and felt them fade as he pushed himself onto his elbows. 

Claude was staring down at him, perplexity on his face, doing nothing to help. Peter pointed over his shoulder, where the man had been.

"Someone was here," he whispered. Claude looked behind him. "Claire's father."

That was enough to get a reaction from Claude, who stood so fast his own chair fell over. Peter actually felt Claude reach out mentally, and realised he was searching for -- what, intruders? Enemies?

Peter picked himself up while Claude was still eyeing the room warily. Before Claude turned, he felt a touch -- a probe -- in his mind.

"He wasn't here," Claude said finally, picking up his chair. "You hallucinated."

"Why the hell would I -- "

"What did your father do?" Claude barked. Peter knit his brows.

"He...was a lawyer?" he said.

" _Do_ ," Claude said. "What did he _do._ Like you."

"You...what?" Peter asked. "Dad..."

He remembered what Nathan had said about Dad's mental illness. If it were true...

"Let me try something," he said. "Just stay there."

He closed his eyes and thought about his father, really thought about him, for the first time since the funeral. He thought about the really _big_ fight they'd had when he was sixteen and dad started being uptight about Vicki, about Peter going out to parties -- 

When he opened his eyes, the flickering, half-there image was back; a ghostly Mr. Bennett, Claire's father, was standing just behind and to the left of Claude, face visible over Claude's shoulder. As Peter watched, he reached forward and grasped Claude's arm. 

"What do you see, Peter?" Claude asked, his voice low and careful.

"What does Claire Bennett's father have to do with you?" Peter asked, in the same tone of voice. Even as he spoke, he felt his concentration fade. Mr. Bennett disappeared -- as did something Peter hadn't even noticed: a pistol in a shoulder-holster, under Claude's left arm. 

"Who the hell _are_ you?" he asked, moving forward. Claude stood his ground. "You know who she is, don't you. Is that why you're still here?"

"What the _fuck_ are you on about?" Claude asked. 

"You stay away from Claire -- "

"Me?" Claude asked, shoving Peter backwards when he came too close. "You want me to stay away from her? I was reading her bedtime stories when you were still in short-pants, Peter Pan." 

Peter was about to spring for Claude, even knowing that he would get his ass kicked, when he heard a gasp from the stairwell. Both of them turned, and this time Peter knew it wasn't some hallucination. 

Claire stood on the landing, staring at both of them, her eyes wide as saucers.


	11. Chapter 11

CLAUDE RAINS AND THOMPSON - THE DEVEAUX BUILDING  
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

"Claude. A word with me, please."

Claude had the uneasy feeling that this latest escapade of his and Bennett's was going to come to a particularly bad end. Bennett was a little naive sometimes, about some things, and thus he was Claude's responsibility as well as his partner. He didn't want to abandon his partner to the tender ministrations of Nakamura, but he didn't have a choice. When Thompson said jump, you didn't even stop to _ask_ how high.

Inside the little greenhouse, the sprayers were misty and cool, a welcome relief from the humidity of New York. 

"The baby," Thompson said, gazing out at Bennett and Nakamura.

"Pretty little thing," Claude replied.

"Glad you think so. I hope Bennett does."

"Why?" Claude asked, though he knew the answer already. 

"She's going home with you to Texas. Well. Home with Bennett."

Claude lifted an eyebrow at Thompson.

"Someone needs to raise her, a Company man. Bennett's got a wife, he's been wanting kids."

"Better him than me."

"I'm not telling you anything Nakamura isn't telling Bennett right now. He's your partner; you look after him. You're going to look after her from now on, too. She isn't his child. She belongs to us."

"What precisely are you asking?" Claude said, then added belatedly, "Sir."

"The girl. Bennett is ruthless enough to kill to keep her safe, but he's...limited. He can't disappear. He doesn't know the signs of manifestation as well as you do. I want you to watch him, watch the girl, and keep them both out of trouble. If he can't report when she starts to show power, if she ever does, you need to do it for him. Do we understand each other?"

" _Quis custiodiet ipsos custodies_ , eh?" Claude asked. 

"Exactly."

"Oh aye," Claude said, as Nakamura placed the baby in Bennett's arms. "I can do that."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

PETER PETRELLI, CLAIRE BENNETT, AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

"Claire, what the hell are you doing here?" Peter asked, breaking the silence that threatened to drown all three of them. 

"Followed you," Claire mumbled, looking down at her shoes. Then she looked back up, studying Claude's face intently. "I was bored. I left a note," she added. "So N...Dad and...grandma wouldn't worry about me."

"Man, Nathan's gonna _kill me!_ " Peter said. 

"Who are you?" Claire asked, looking at Claude. "You know who I am, don't you?"

This was a good point. Peter crossed his arms. "Yeah, Claude. Who exactly are you?"

Claude looked from Peter to Claire and back again, a hunted and desperate look. 

"Claude," Claire said, coming forward slowly. "I remember that name. I know you too, don't I?"

"I can assure you, you don't," Claude answered, backing away from both of them. 

"I do, I remember you. And -- my dad...in the hospital once. You didn't have a beard then."

"Never seen you before," Claude muttered, totally unconvincingly. Peter moved closer to Claire; she might be indestructible but it was instinct to want to protect family. 

"And...fish." Claire sounded confused, so at least Peter wasn't the only one. "Fish frying -- fish and chips. You cooked us fish and chips," she said triumphantly. "Uncle Claude. I remember you."

" _Uncle Claude?_ " Peter asked.

"I'm not her uncle," Claude said hurriedly.

"No, that's just what I called you. That time Dad was in the hospital, you came and stayed with us. Mom used to ask you over for dinner all the time. But then I thought..." she glanced at Peter, then back to Claude. "I thought you died. I remember we went to your funeral."

"Never trust a funeral without a body," Claude sighed. "You remember that and it'll serve you well."

Claire pushed past Peter, startling him, and did something that Peter would assume could get a person killed -- she hugged Claude Rains. 

"Dad said you were killed -- I cried for _weeks_ ," Claire said, muffled where her face was pressed against Claude's coat. Peter watched as the other man awkwardly put one arm around her shoulders, then bowed his head over Claire's and closed his eyes. It would have been touching, except then Claude opened his goddamn mouth again.

"Your dad ought to know," he said. "He's the one who shot me."

Claire jerked back, almost running into Peter, and he caught her by the arm. Claude pulled down the collar of his shirt. 

High on his shoulder was a patch of white skin and, in the center, a dark puckered scar. It was cleaner than most of the bullet scars Peter had seen in textbooks, but there wasn't much else it could be. Peter tightened his grip on Claire's arm. Claude let go of his collar and jerked his shoulder up, resettling the shirt over the scar. 

"Yes," he said. "I worked for the Company. I don't anymore. Now you know why."

"But..." Claire pulled back against Peter, as if she wanted to hide. "He didn't -- he didn't mean to, did he? I mean, I know he did some bad things, but he kept me safe and he risked pretty much everything just to get me out of Texas..."

She trailed off. Claude stepped forward, and Peter wrapped his other arm around Claire's shoulders.

"For god's sake, I'm not going to hurt her," Claude snapped. "If what you say is true, I can't anyway. Let her go, Petrelli."

Peter slowly released Claire. Claude put out one hand and cupped her chin. 

"I'm very sure he loves you," he said. "But he definitely meant to shoot me. He was acting on orders. And that's a truth you need to know."

***

CLAUDE AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS  
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

"Get out," Bennett told him, but there was a quaver in his voice. Claude unlatched his seatbelt and stepped out onto the hot tarmac on the bridge. There was still time to save this; he wasn't a Speaker yet, wouldn't be a Speaker for another two years, but he was pretty bloody persuasive on his own. 

"S'not the first time you've been told to kill a man, but is it the first time you've been told to kill a friend?" he asked. 

"Tell me who it is, and we can forget about the rest," Bennett answered, and Claude knew he was done. If Bennett was pleading with Claude to save his own life, that meant he was going to end it. Here. On the bridge. 

Claude could feel the drop to the water and tried to gauge it. A hundred feet? Hundred and fifty? He wasn't going to give up his student. He was his _student_.

"You're just going to do it?" Claude asked, now bargaining for time and possibly because he knew Bennett _did_ have a conscience. "You're just going to off me like nothing -- "

"It's not nothing!" Bennett said angrily. "We find new people, that's what we do, and _you buried one!_ "

 _Oh, you're going to regret those words in another few years, when pretty wee Claire starts to show what she can do_ , Claude thought to himself. _God help you if she can't control it, because I won't be there to teach her._

"You acted against the interests of the Company -- "

"D'you ever stop to think what those interests are?" Claude asked, realising too late that Bennett had touched a nerve, and he'd responded. Bennett drew his gun. 

"Who is it?" he asked. Claude thought fast and started working, because once the gun came out there was no going back.

 _You're going to do it,_ he said to himself. _And it's going to hurt, but you'll be free. This isn't about your pain. It's about your students._

Now all he wanted was to piss Bennett off.

"And what if it was Claire?" he asked. Bennett blanched. "That's why you're so distant from her. You know you're going to turn her in. You're preparing for it."

"You used to believe in what we do."

"I used to believe in the _tooth fairy_ ," Claude retorted. 

"We made a promise, both of us," Bennett insisted. 

What Claude said would haunt him for seven years, just as much as Bennett's accusations would haunt Bennett when his daughter began to show her power. It was a moral statement, and Claude hated people who made moral statements and then died for him. But once you said the words, you couldn't unsay them.

"I will not hunt my own people," he said. Easy, easy -- 

He found the firing pin on the gun and the nerves he needed in Bennett's hand; if this was going to be convincing he had to talk and work at the same time, which was a lot like holding a conversation while playing a piano. 

"This isn't who you are," he continued. Easy. "You have a choice -- "

He forced a spasm in Bennett's hand and relished the surprised, frightened look in his eyes as the gun went off. It hit Claude right where he'd intended, high in the meaty part of his shoulder, where it couldn't do much harm. He stumbled backwards, making for the ledge of the bridge. 

"Why couldn't you just -- " Bennett fired again, this time on his own, and Claude stopped the bullet as soon as it pierced his skin, though not before a pretty arterial gush burst forth. He disappeared, or tried to -- it flickered for a moment before he could hold it. If he couldn't fly once he went over, he was a dead man any old way. 

He took a deep breath and backflipped over the rail, just in time to hear Bennett fire two more shots. The blood loss was already making him dizzy, but he managed to slow his descent until he stopped just above the scrub that overgrew the river. He saw Bennett's face as he leaned over the edge, and then saw it disappear. He strained to listen for the sound of the car starting up. When it finally did, Claude exhaled. 

When you find yourself floating invisibly three feet above a river, bleeding out from bulletwounds inflicted on you by your former best friend, it might be time to take a moment and evaluate your life to date. 

***

JESSICA AND MICAH SANDERS AND DL HAWKINS - NYC

"Hey, I just thought of something," Jessica said, lying on the hotel bed, watching TV upside down. Micah, working on his laptop next to her, looked up.

"What?" he asked.

"We're going to be here for a big election," Jessica said. "You should do a report on it for social studies."

"Like what?"

"Well, like how the news stations talk about the election. Hey, we could go down to the polls and watch people vote."

"Sounds boring," DL grunted.

"It's educational," Jessica replied. 

"Yeah, and boring."

"Don't listen to Daddy," Jessica told Micah. "I'll skip classes for a day and we'll go down and watch them vote, and find out how the whole thing works. How about it?"

"Okay," Micah said agreeably. "Sounds like fun. I want to see a voting machine."

"You got it. I'm sure we can get you a look at one up-close, somehow," Jessica said, smiling.

After all, every kid should know how the democratic system worked.

***

PETER PETRELLI, CLAIRE BENNETT, AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

"Nathan -- yeah, listen, no, okay -- Nathan -- _Nathan, stop talking_."

Claire leaned against the railing of the factory's stairs, feeling guilty. Peter was on his cellphone at the other end of the long, empty room, but he was still perfectly audible, and it was pretty clear he was getting shouted at.

"Don' mind him," Claude said, sitting on the steps. "He's had worse trouble than Patriarch Petrelli gettin' mad at him. He's had me mad at him, for a start."

"You're the one who's been teaching him," Claire said. "His complicated guy."

"His what?" Claude asked.

"Every time he tried to explain about this, he said it was complicated. You're the complicated guy."

"Yeah, well, he wasn't exactly lyin', was he?"

Claire shrugged. She had a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure how. This wasn't the man she remembered, enormous and clean-shaven and always laughing at something. After a minute, he cleared his throat.

"So Peter's brother is your dad. Must say, that was unexpected," he said.

"Is it?"

"Well, I def'nitely didn't know."

"How much _do_ you know?" 

"You'll have to be a trifle more specific," he said. "What about?"

"Any of it. Me. What I am. What Peter is. What...you are?" she asked. He nodded. "You worked with my dad."

"Yeah, I did."

"So...how much do you know?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "That's a dangerous question you're asking, Claire Bennett."

"My family's been taken away from me," she said. "I'm hiding out because the people you used to work for want to kidnap me and, what, run tests on me? I don't know if I'm ever going to see them again, and my real dad can _fly_. I don't even know everything Peter can do. You're alive, even though I went to your funeral. And you're really worried about dangerous _questions?_ "

"First of all, you're not the only one who's ever lost anything by this," he said. "Second, what I know or knew is now seven years out of date, and not entirely useful. Third, the fact that I was friends with your father until he _shot me_ doesn't give you the right to any of the information I _do_ have."

Claire looked at him, crestfallen. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"There is a time and a place," he said. "Right now is neither."

"When?" she asked quietly.

"For a start, _not_ when Papa Petrelli's on his way over to shout at you for breakin' out," he said with a small grin. "There will be time, Claire."

"Are you angry with my dad?" she asked. "Are you angry with me?"

"He did what he had to. We all do. You're no part of it; no part of why I left the service, anyway," he replied. "I'm not angry with you. Except," he added, as Peter approached, "for breakin' out."

"I gotta take you home," Peter said. "Nathan's sending a car."

"Jesus -- " Claude began, but Peter interrupted.

"I didn't tell him where I was, I'm not a total dumbass," Peter said. "It's meeting us a few blocks away."

Claire looked at Claude, who set his jaw stubbornly. "You've learned _something_ , anyway," he muttered.

"Tomorrow?" Peter asked, and Claude nodded curtly.

"Morning," he said, pointing at Peter. 

"Can I see you again?" Claire asked, looking plaintively at Claude as Peter began to tug her towards the stairs. 

"When it's safe," Claude answered, and he didn't meet her eyes. Claire felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. That was the kind of thing people said when they didn't want to say yes. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

NATHAN AND HEIDI PETRELLI - NYC

Unlike Nathan, the Petrelli sons were not morning people. He could count on the boys to sleep until ten at least on weekends, which was a blessing that he and Heidi were very aware of. Sunday morning breakfast was -- well, special, in a way. Not a goopy romantic way or anything, though. Just special, because it was just him and Heidi. 

"This week's going to be hectic," he said, picking the melon out of his fruit salad and eating it first. Heidi, sitting next to him, stole one of his grapes. 

"I know, sweetie," she said, kissing his cheek. "It'll all be over by Friday though, you know? I think I can put up with it for a week."

"You've been putting up a lot longer than a week."

"Well, I knew what I was getting into. Ambitious young Nathan Petrelli, class president...I've told you over and over, I signed on for this. I want to be the governor's wife."

"Governor!" Nathan gave her an offended look. "I'm not settling for less than First Lady for you."

"Well, that's very good of you."

"Only the best for Mrs. Petrelli."

She smiled and stole another grape. "So -- office today, home by dinner? I have some calls to make, but no meetings."

"Should be. I need to get going, too -- I have a breakfast meeting before I get into headquarters."

"How many breakfasts are you going to eat today?" she asked, laughing. He had to stop and count.

"Four," he said. "Here, pre-HQ breakfast, bagels with the volunteers in midtown, and brunch with the Young Voters' League. But it's okay, because I don't get lunch."

"Stay out of trouble," she said, as he wiped his mouth and stood up. 

"I try," he replied, kissing her goodbye. 

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS AND CLAIRE BENNETT - THE SAFE HOUSE

Peter was up and showering when Claire woke, so she switched on the morning news and poured herself a bowl of cereal. _Hello! Manhattan_ was doing a segment on accident survivors called "I Shouldn't Be Alive!" which Claire could relate to. 

"Morning!" Peter called, walking down the hallway to his bedroom.

"Morning!" she called back, trying not to peek. It wasn't pervy, she'd decided; it was aesthetic appreciation. "You want breakfast?"

"Peel me a grape!" he shouted from the bedroom. Claire rolled her eyes. "Hey, you know Nathan's coming over, right?"

"Nathan's here," Nathan said, stepping through the front door. "Do I need to take a roll call today?"

"Hi, Dad," Claire said, still getting used to the sound of that in her mouth. She hugged him in greeting, and was pleased that he hugged back. She wasn't sure how angry he still might be after yesterday -- he'd been plenty furious on the car trip home, but like Peter told her, nobody got disowned. There was a lot more shouting in the Petrelli family than the Bennett family, but it didn't seem to actually affect anything. "You want some breakfast?"

"Absolutely. What's on the menu?"

"Peter wants a peeled grape."

"I'd settle for toast or -- doughnuts!" Peter said, emerging and pulling on a shirt as Nathan held up a white carton. "Awesome."

"Sunday morning treat, because I can't stay long," Nathan said. Peter took the carton and set it on the kitchen table, opening it and shoving a glazed doughnut in his mouth. "You're all class, Pete."

"It's hard work, being unemployed," Peter replied. Nathan sat down and took one of the small cake doughnuts, tearing it to pieces as he ate. 

"Actually...I kinda have something I need to talk to you about," Peter said. Nathan glanced at Claire, but Peter put a hand on her arm. "Claire too. It's about Dad. You remember how you said you thought maybe Dad was like us?"

"What'd you find, Peter?" Nathan asked, almost suspiciously. 

"Nothing incriminating," Peter replied, around a mouthful of custard-filled. "But I think I can do what he did."

"Which is?"

"Uh." Peter frowned. "Hallucinate."

Nathan gave Peter a long, measuring look. Claire sensed that maybe there was some tension between the brothers that they hadn't shown until now.

"Peter, you know, the crazy-little-brother thing, I'd really like to swerve around that this time if we could," Nathan said slowly.

"Yesterday I was thinking about Dad, you know? And I saw this...vision. It was like a movie for a second. Stuff that wasn't there. I think it's like stuff that's important to people."

"Uh-huh," Nathan said.

"Like, you look at someone and you kind of see...what's on their mind."

"And you think Dad did that?" Nathan asked.

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Peter said. Claire wanted to kick him in the shin and tell him to calm down, because he was obviously freaking her dad out, but it looked like this probably wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. "Remember when I was _really_ screwed up and I told you I thought maybe Dad was following me or something? I think he was _seeing things._ When he looked at me, you know?"

"Is this the Vicki thing?" Nathan asked.

"What Vicki thing?" Claire said.

"Peter had a girlfriend Dad didn't like. Nobody liked her, actually. I don't think _Peter_ liked her," Nathan said. 

"Listen, my point is, I think that was what Dad could do. I think he saw things about people, actually hallucinated them. I mean..." Peter swallowed suddenly and looked as if he'd lost his appetite. "If you didn't know what was going on, that'd be more than enough to make a person want to kill themselves. Don't you think?"

"My grandfather killed himself?" Claire asked, into the long silence that followed. Her father and uncle exchanged a look across the table.

"There's a lot of family business you don't know about yet," Nathan said. "But if it's any consolation, it looks like insanity isn't actually one of our genetic traits."

"Just invisibility," Peter said, looking mischevious. "Indestructibility. Oh yeah, and some of us can fly..."

"I should get going," Nathan kissed Claire on the forehead and slapped Peter on the back. 

"But -- " Claire began.

"I promise, when this is all over, I will sit you down and explain everything," Nathan said. 

"Everyone keeps saying that," Claire murmured rebelliously.

"I mean it. Just give me a few more days, okay?" he asked, and left before she could really reply.

***

HIRO, ANDO, NATHAN, AND JACK - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

For the rest of New York, Sunday was a day off. 

For the Petrelli volunteers, it was the second to last day before the election. 

Hiro and Ando were originally supposed to be campaigning downtown, but Hiro was in the process of wrangling them duty in Greenwich village, going door-to-door and handing out buttons reminding people to vote on November 7th, when Jack showed up. 

"Well, that's helpful," he said cheerfully, joining the growing crowd in the common area of Petrelli Campaign Headquarters. "I mean, if we don't find the place going door-to-door, it might not damn well exist."

"Yes," Hiro said, eyeing the plastic bag Jack was carrying. It smelled really good -- better than the bagels sitting out on the table, anyway. 

"Brought hot breakfast," Jack said, opening the bag. He passed a foil-wrapped cylinder to Ando. "High protein breakfast burrito for Ando, a sausage...biscuitty...thing for me, and, for Hiro Nakamura..."

A styrofoam box emerged from the bag. Hiro accepted it and lifted the lid cautiously. 

Inside there was a paper pocket like the kind that french-fries came in, only instead it was filled with oblong strips. There was also a little tub of butter, slowly melting.

"Waffle sticks!" Jack said. Hiro's eyes widened. 

"Perfect breakfastfood!" he said, awed. 

"Maple syrup's baked in," Jack added, pointing to small brown chunks in the waffle sticks. Hiro took a stick out and dipped it in the butter, chewing rapturously.

"Genius," he said.

"Totally," Jack agreed. Ando was studying his breakfast burrito as if trying to work out how to proceed. "It's good, it's got eggs and cheese and stuff," Jack told him. He helped Ando unwrap it, and Hiro got his first really good look at Jack's tattoo. He took Jack's hand and turned it over so that they could examine it. 

"It's still sore," Jack said. "But it's cool, isn't it?"

"Very nice," Hiro agreed. Privately he thought he'd gotten a much better deal with his sword, but you couldn't account for personal taste. 

"All right, ladies and gentlemen!" someone called from the front, and Hiro stood on his toes to see Nathan arriving. He was still wearing his Superman pin. Hiro beamed. "Breakfast is on!"

Hiro ate his waffle sticks while the volunteer manager announced assignments and the rest of the volunteers fell on the bagels; there was a photo op with Nathan eating a bagel with the volunteers, and lots of jokes about there being no rest for the wicked, and then suddenly people were clearing out. 

"Hey, Hiro," Nathan said, as he passed. "Knock 'em dead today."

"Vote Petrelli!" Hiro called back. "Up, up, and away!"

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - YOUNG VOTERS' LEAGUE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

You had to pace yourself in breakfast as in all things. Nathan wasn't sure how this schedule had happened, but he was pretty sure tomorrow he was having two and a half lunches as well, which meant that maybe his campaign manager was trying to give him a cholesterol-induced heart attack. Though, to be fair, his manager didn't know about breakfast with Peter and Claire. 

The Young Voters' League probably wasn't going to win him any votes, but the kids who were there today were going to be voting for him for years to come, if he could make the right impression now. You couldn't just look at one election, you had to look at an entire career. Plus, they were bipartisan, anyone from any party could join, so it looked good that Nathan was schmoozing them.

He had to load up his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits, because the kids had cooked this stuff themselves. Looking at it, he wondered if he could cut it up into _really small pieces_ like he had when he was a little kid and was trying to get away with not eating something he didn't like. 

There were speeches, made by the kids, about public service and political awareness, the importance of voting intelligently, the importance of free debate, a hundred and one other public-minded duties that were part of being a citizen of the United States. Nathan clapped and managed to finish off the eggs and biscuits by the time it was his turn to speak, but he was afraid the hash browns might finish _him_ off for good. 

On his way to the podium, one of the Young Voters touched his arm to get his attention.

"Yes?" he asked, knowing the look of someone with News when he saw it. 

"Mr. Petrelli," the young man said, "there's a report on CNN.com you should see, when you get a minute. You're up four points."

"Four points from where I was?" he asked.

"Four points over your nearest competition," he said. "Congratulations, Mr. Petrelli -- you're in the lead."

Suddenly, Nathan felt as if he could eat an entire plate of hash browns. 

***

HIRO, ANDO, AND JACK - GREENWICH VILLAGE

By mid-afternoon the clear weather of the morning had faded into overcast, and it had begun to rain. Jack, Hiro, and Ando took shelter in the Versa, staring out the window and watching it pour down relentlessly. They'd started a new debate, while they waited for it to let up: whether _Ouran High School Host Club_ would be improved by the introduction of characters with superpowers, or whether nothing at all could ever improve _Ouran High School Host Club_. 

"Let's get something to eat," Jack said finally. "The storm's moving east, it'll clear up in about an hour. There's a pizza place four blocks from here." 

"Better than Google," Ando said, starting the car. 

"Sexier too," Jack replied. "Just go up to the stoplight and hang a left."

They got as far as the stoplight when Jack let out a surprise yell.

"That's it!" he said, pointing to the right. Ando slammed on the brakes and horns blared. 

"What? What?" he asked. 

"Claire! The girl! I know where she is!" Jack said. "Turn right!"

"Are you crazy?" Ando asked. 

"Fine, turn left and then turn around! Just go that way!" Jack said, pointing. Ando turned left through the yellow light, spun the Versa like a stunt driver, and managed to get through the green light going the other way. 

"Which way now?" he asked.

"Straight! I think!" Jack said excitedly. "No wait -- left lane -- your other left -- okay, turn at the stop sign. Dude! There it is!"

He pointed over Hiro's shoulder at a tan building that looked like one in a long line of tan buildings, but somehow had to be the one. He didn't know how he knew. He just...knew. His wrist throbbed. 

"Yahoo!" Hiro said, as Jack leapt out of the car before it had fully stopped. He heard Hiro and Ando following him to the door, but when he tried it, it wouldn't budge. Well, of course it was locked; this was New York.

"She's in here," he told Hiro. "She's on the fifth floor. We gotta get inside."

"Buzzers!" Ando said, pointing to a panel on the opposite side of the doorway. 

"Sweet," Jack said, pressing the buzzer next to 501. Even as he pressed it, it occurred to him that he had no idea what he was going to say to Claire when he found her. There was a certain romantic-comedy cachet to "Hi, I'm your soulmate", but maybe he should open with something more mellow, like helping her find her wallet or something.

"Hello?" said a deep male voice. Jack paused.

"Pizza delivery?" he said.

"Fuck off," said the voice. Jack pushed 502 insistently. No answer, and none for 503, either.

He was just pushing 504 when he became aware that Hiro and Ando had disappeared. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

"Hiya, kid," said an enormously, impossibly muscular man. He had a badge. "What's going on?"

"Uh..." Jack said.


	12. Chapter 12

ISAAC MENDEZ, MATT PARKMAN, AND MR. BENNETT - LOWER MANHATTAN

The motel they were staying in was cheap, and though neither enjoyed it, they shared a room. Their cash reserve would only last so long and Matt had no idea what they were going to do when it ran out. He felt vaguely that they should be doing something to stop Primatech, instead of chasing after a teenaged cheerleader who couldn't be killed, but -- well, he was going to be a father too, and when he looked at the desperation in Bennett's eyes, he got it. The man had lost his family already. Besides, Matt knew he wouldn't last two days on his own if he left Bennett now. 

He wasn't sure Bennett would survive either. The man wasn't eating and was barely sleeping; last night he'd gone out and managed to find a handgun somewhere, and even after returning he'd prowled the room restlessly. Without the glasses on he looked a lot less intimidating, or maybe it was just that Matt was getting used to him, but he was almost starting to think of Bennett as one of the good guys.

Until he saw the telltale bulge that cops knew to look for, under Bennett's left arm. Then he remembered why they were here, and who had put him here in the first place. 

"Isaac?" Bennett called, walking into the dark studio. It was still early morning, too early really, but after losing the Versa yesterday, they had to get a fast start. The Finder might have already found Claire. "Isaac, are you here?"

"Jesus _Christ_ ," someone moaned, and Bennett kicked the bed in the corner. The blankets shifted and Isaac sat up. "What the hell, man," he said, looking blearily at them.

"I need your help again, Isaac," Bennett said. Isaac opened his mouth, and Bennett leveled the gun at him. 

"Bennett," Matt said quietly.

"You are going to paint," Bennett said. "You are going to paint until you find my daughter."

Isaac sat up slowly and inched towards the edge of the bed, watching Bennett with wary, bloodshot eyes. 

_Why do I always get stuck with the maniacs,_ Matt thought to himself.

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands. Matt put out his hand and touched the gun, sliding the safety on.

"I'm done screwing around," Bennett said.

"You can't substitute firearms for reasoned dialogue," Matt told him.

"You'd be surprised," Bennett answered.

***

NATHAN PETRELLI - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

The hash browns _had_ done him in. It was three o'clock and Nathan never wanted to look at food again.

He leaned back in his chair and watched the numbers scroll past on his computer. Charts of undecideds who had become decideds, statistics, trends, all of it reduced to little symbols that didn't even actually exist, just moving pixels projected on a screen. 

It was real, though, in the sense that he was ahead in the race for congress. He was _winning._ Nathan liked to win. 

The telephone rang and he groaned, checking caller ID before he answered. When he saw who it was, however, he jerked upright and picked up the reciever. 

"This is Nathan Petrelli," he said.

"Mr. Petrelli, this is Officer Dashell, I'm calling from the fifth floor," the man said carefully.

"I understand," Nathan replied. "Go on."

"I have a man in custody, found trying to break into the building, specifically the fifth floor. He says he's looking for a woman matching the description of -- "

"I gotcha. What's he look like?"

"Blond, pretty young, nobody I recognise," the officer said.

"Keep him there. I'll be there in ten minutes," Nathan said. He was reaching for his coat even before the phone was back in its cradle. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

NATHAN PETRELLI AND JACK BAKER - THE SAFE HOUSE - MANHATTAN

The apartment building that Claire was living in was an old one, and some of the apartments themselves had been converted, leaving the odd single-room studio here and there. One of these, next to the apartment, was used as a sort of panic room, and was _currently_ being used to hold someone Nathan was going to kill if he didn't like the look of him. 

An officer met him at the door and briefed him as they climbed the stairs; apparently the kid was seventeen, according to his driver's licence, and from Ojai, California. He hadn't been reported missing, had no outstanding warrants, didn't even have any parking tickets, and was refusing to talk without a lawyer present.

"That's a temporary problem," Nathan said, catching his breath at the top. 

The officer smiled and gestured him towards the door. Nathan opened it and walked inside, ready to encounter -- well, anything, really; perhaps someone posing as a kid to get close to Claire, or perhaps some lunatic who'd seen Peter and Claire the night before. 

Instead, the kid looked so...normal. And oddly familiar.

"Afternoon," Nathan said, shutting the door behind him. He loosened his tie and undid his cufflinks. "Jack Baker, I presume."

The boy nodded, staring at him with wide, nervous eyes. Good; Nathan liked his opponents to be frightened. Gave him an edge. 

"I hear you're refusing to speak without a lawyer present." Nathan spread his hands. "Just so happens I'm a lawyer. Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah," Baker said warily. "You're Nathan Petrelli."

"You know what I do for a living?"

"P-politician," he stammered.

"That's right. You know what I did before I was a politician, back when you were still running around in diapers?"

The boy just blinked at him.

"I was an officer in the United States Navy. You know what they teach you in the Navy?"

"Sailing?" the boy ventured. Nathan smiled. Not a nice smile.

"They teach you not to fuck around with sixteen-year-old girls. You know what else they teach you?"

"Nosir."

"Unarmed combat." Nathan cracked his knuckles and leaned in close. "I know how to kill you with my bare hands, and the only reason I have for not doing it, right now, is -- "

"NASAN PETRELLI!"

Nathan stiffened. He knew that voice. And only one man had this kind of timing, anyway.

He straightened and turned his head. Hiro burst into the room, chest heaving, half-restrained by the cop outside. 

"It's okay, let him go," he said to the cop. Hiro straightened his shirt and stepped inside, closing the door. "Hiro, I was on a roll here. You gotta learn not to interrupt me when I'm intimidating people."

"Sorry," Hiro said, bowing. "He is not people! He is Jack Bakeru!"

Nathan looked sidelong at Baker. "You know this kid?"

"Hai! Yes! Very good man. Special. Like you and me," Hiro said. "He is on a quest."

"Konnichiwa, Hiro," Baker said, looking relieved. 

"What the hell is going on here?" Nathan asked.

"Jack Bakeru," Hiro repeated. "Very special young man. He finds things."

"Finds things?" Nathan inquired, looking at Baker. This was not the way he had foreseen this discussion going. 

"Yeah, uh, it's kind of a special skill," Baker said, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "Like, I know where stuff is."

"Stuff."

"Yeah."

"Stuff like my daughter."

Baker frowned. "Listen, I don't know who your daughter is and I'm really, trust me, _really_ sorry if I upset something here but you got the wrong idea about me. It's like Hiro says. I'm just on my quest. My quest took me here."

"Your quest for...?" Nathan asked. Baker bit his lip.

"Um. A girl. No! Not like that! A specific girl. I had this vision, okay, it's cool, it's from the gods, I'm supposed to find this girl and that's gonna be part of my spirit walk. I'm getting enlightened," the kid added, looking hopeful.

"This girl," Nathan drawled, "Wouldn't happen to be blonde, about so tall, sixteen, and -- "

"Dressed in a brown skirt and ultra-hot green top," Baker blurted. "And she's, uh. Indestructible."

Nathan rubbed his face. Life used to be so simple. 

"What do you want with Claire?" he asked. 

"Dude, you know Claire?" Baker beamed.

"I'm her _father_ , punk," Nathan retorted. 

"Oh. Right. So that's why...all this," Baker said, gesturing at the room. "Is she some kind of secret or something?"

"She was, until you showed up," Nathan said. He glanced at Hiro, who was staring at him gleefully.

"The frying man is _the cheerleader's father!_ " he said. 

"Hiro, _stop calling me that_ ," Nathan said.

"Flying man?" Baker asked.

"Whoosh," Hiro said. 

"You can fly? That's awesome!" Baker said enthusiastically.

"If I could sell it you could have it for a dime," Nathan replied. 

"There's one under the seat cushion!"

Nathan sat down, rubbing his face. 

"Why are you looking for Claire?" he asked, trying to remain calm.

"Dunno," Baker said. He seemed oddly relaxed about it. "I just know I'm supposed to find her. Kind of cool that I did, don't you think? City this big, what are the odds, right?"

"Strangely small," Nathan said to himself. "You can understand why I might have a few issues with this."

"Hiro can vouch for me," Baker said. "I mean, I already know she's here, I already know what she looks like. You might as well let me say hi. I came three thousand miles in a Nissan to find her."

"You step out of line, I'll be on you so fast you'll think we were siamese twins," Nathan said.

"For serious, man, the word is _conjoined_ ," Baker said, trying to look dignified. 

"Don't push me," Nathan replied. 

"Yessir."

***

MATT, ISAAC, AND BENNETT - LOWER MANHATTAN

Bennett sat, fingers laced across the back of his neck, head bowed, pistol on the table in front of him. It was safe enough -- Isaac was working, blown out of his mind on heroin, and dead to anything not involving paints and canvas. 

He had been painting continually for hours, but nothing that could lead them to Claire. Matt couldn't even look at one of them, some kind of Picasso-esque portrait where Claire's eyes misaligned with her mouth and her hair stood askew. 

"Bennett," Matt said quietly, not wanting to upset the other man. "Maybe this...means something."

Bennett looked at him, face carefully blank. "What?"

"Maybe, you know." Matt gestured at the paintings. "Maybe it's a sign. That she's safe and...you should be focusing on other things. You said she was safe with Claude."

Bennett gave him a sharp, searching look. 

"I can't help that I read minds," Matt said apologetically.

"I'm not going to abandon my daughter," Bennett said.

"It's not abandoning. It's like...leaving her with a babysitter," Matt said.

"Leaving a sixteen-year-old fugitive with a man who's been playing dead for seven years?"

"But she's _safe_ with him," Matt said. He sensed that this was going to degenerate pretty quickly into the kind of "Is so" "is not" arguments teenage siblings had, but Bennett just turned away, watching the painter work.

At the same time Bennett turned to him, Isaac jerked back from the painting as if he'd been shocked. Right in the middle of one image, he suddenly began to mix new colours and map out an entirely different sketch on the second half of the canvas. The first half had been a hand holding something, something unclear; the second half began abruptly, covering any white space where the first left off. 

Matt came closer as the image began to take shape. It was a long, sinuous shape, like a snake, with protrusions branching off it. 

"I've seen that before," he said. "I don't know...where..."

Bennett glanced up, then frowned and joined him, looking over Isaac's shoulder as he painted. Lettering appeared below it, slowly and torturously. 

"Who's Simon Porter?" Matt asked.

"What's Hirou International?" Bennett replied. Isaac continued to paint, shadowing the edges, until it became obvious it was a business card. The logo, the title and name, all in the proper place. But no telephone numbers, no email address.

"Something changed," Bennett said. Matt looked at him. "In the last ten minutes, something's changed the future. He stopped here...and started something new on the same canvas."

Isaac dropped his brush and palette with a clatter. He stumbled backwards into Matt, who caught him by one arm and watched as the white faded away from his eyes. 

"Nother fix," Isaac mumbled.

"Not right now, Isaac," Bennett said, still looking at the painting. Matt wrestled Isaac up the stairs and into his bed while Bennett took down the painting and stood it up with the others.

"Baker and his Japanese pals may come back," he said, when Matt joined him on the floor again. "I don't think we can leave Isaac here."

"Are we going somewhere?" Matt asked.

"Mm. I'm not sure yet. I want to know what changed..." 

"How could we possibly find that out?"

"We can speak to Baker if we can get him alone. In the meantime," Bennett picked up a pair of pliers and passed them to Matt. "Start unstapling canvases."

"Which ones?"

"All of them."

***

NATHAN PETRELLI, CLAIRE BENNETT, AND JACK BAKER - THE SAFE HOUSE

Jack's heart was pounding and he could barely hear anything; he was actually going to meet Claire, albeit chaperoned by her clearly insane father. Nathan Petrelli at that moment definitely did not have Jack's vote, even if Jack wasn't old enough and couldn't register to vote in New York anyway. 

The older man unlocked the door and pushed it open, gesturing Jack inside ahead of him. The apartment was small, but it had a good view and Jack was growing to appreciate someplace really _clean_. There were things scattered around, of course, and a couple of scrabble tiles under the sofa, but by and large there weren't pennies behind the shelves or pens that had rolled into tiny hard-to-reach places. No distractions. 

"Claire!" Mr. Petrelli called, closing the door behind him. "Peter!"

"Peter's gone out!" came a voice from a hallway on the right, and Jack bit his lip. A moment later Claire emerged, carrying a laptop computer under her arm. "Hi, who're you?" she asked, glancing from him to Mr. Petrelli and back.

"This is Mr. Baker," Mr. Petrelli said, giving Jack a not-very-gentle shove forward. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing. She was prettier in person than in the visions, and that was saying a lot. 

"Hi," Jack said, suddenly tongue-tied.

"Hi," Claire replied, looking confused. 

"I'm Jack," he added.

"Claire," she said, and held out her hand. He reached out to shake it and a shock jumped from her fingers to his. "Ow! Sorry."

"No, my fault..." Jack started, then stopped. "Uh. Nice to meet you. Your hair clip's in the bathroom cupboard."

"What?" she asked, staring at him. Jack clapped a hand over his mouth. Stupid, _stupid!_

"Jack finds things," Mr. Petrelli said. "He's one of us."

Jack noticed that Claire couldn't help looking down the hallway, at the bathroom on the end. 

"Is that why you're here?" she asked. "Are you...finding something for Na...dad?"

"No, I uh. I came here to find you," Jack admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

"You did?"

"Yeah. I'm um. From California, right, and Hiro -- do you know Hiro?"

"No. Peter's told me about him, though," she said, smiling. She had a lovely smile. Jack fought the urge to blurt that out, because dude, you had to keep _some_ kind of cool around the ladies.

"Hiro left his car in Nevada so I drove it here for him and had this vision..." 

It really did sound dumber every time he said this.

"...anyway, I'm supposed to find you," he said. "I don't guess you know why, huh?"

"No, I don't know," she said. She seemed so casual about it all -- he hadn't expected fireworks, but she might at least have had some kind of vague recognition or something. This was the most important moment of Jack Baker's young life, and the girl he'd crossed a continent to find was treating it like she really just wanted to get back to whatever she was doing. "You want a soda or some cocoa or something? You're kind of damp."

Jack glanced at Mr. Petrelli, who had stopped scowling at least and was just watching them, arms crossed.

"Yeah, I guess," he said. Claire led the way into the kitchen, and he stood in the doorway while she opened the fridge. "Cocoa's good, if that's okay."

"Sure."

"Where's Peter?" Mr. Petrelli asked, looming in the doorway behind him.

"He went out," Claire answered. "He said he was meeting Claude again. Peter's my uncle," she added, to Jack. "He's, um. Different."

"Like...disabled?" Jack asked. Mr. Petrelli snorted.

"Not exactly," she said with a smile. "Dad tell you much about me?"

"Hiro says Mr. Petrelli can fly."

"It runs in the family," Claire said, pouring the milk into a bowl and putting it in the microwave. "Want to see something cool?"

"Claire," Mr. Petrelli warned, but Claire had already picked up a knife and slit herself across the arm with it. 

" _Jesus don't do that!_ " Jack said, aghast. Blood dripped down her arm and he reached instinctively for the towel he knew was under the sink.

"It's okay!" she said, putting the knife down and catching his wrist. He glanced up at her and saw no pain or panic at all in her eyes. "Sorry, guess I should have warned you."

"You could warn _me_ next time," Mr. Petrelli added. Jack touched her arm, disbelieving, and then turned it over just to be sure. There was definitely blood, but no source -- no cut. 

"I heal. That's what _I_ do," Claire said. 

"Man, getting your ears pierced must have _sucked!_ " Jack blurted. Claire laughed, and a few more drops of blood fell on the kitchen floor. Jack moved his hand, though she was still holding him by the wrist; she let him go and he picked up the towel, wiping the blood off her arm carefully. She looked startled. 

"That's really neat," he mumbled shyly. The microwave beeped. Claire pulled away politely and took the milk out, pouring it into two mugs and adding cocoa mix. 

"Want some?" she asked her father. His expression had changed; now it was deeply thoughtful. 

"No, I have another six hours on the campaign trail," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Any idea when Peter's getting back?"

"Probably not till late, he usually doesn't."

"Yeah, sure." Mr. Petrelli eyed them both. "Tell you what, Hiro and Ando are outside, I'm going to have them come in for a while. It's not that I don't trust you, Baker," he said, "But...well, it _is_ that I don't trust you."

"Don't blame you," Jack replied. 

"Walk with me to the door," Mr. Petrelli said. It wasn't really an invitation so much as a command, so Jack followed him out into the hall. Mr. Petrelli turned to him and caught him by the ear.

"Ow! Hey!"

"You might be a good kid or you might be a psycho, I don't really know," Mr. Petrelli said, while Jack struggled. "But I do know that if you hurt my daughter I will rip your arms off."

"Okay! Jeez!" Jack felt Mr. Petrelli let go of his ear, and he rubbed it cautiously. "I thought we were done with the whole parental threatening thing."

"I remember vividly being seventeen," Mr. Petrelli said. "I remember what people look like when they're being morons about the opposite sex. I'm watching you, Baker. Hiro! Ando!"

"Yes!" Hiro's head popped out of the next doorway over.

"You mind hanging out with Claire and Baker for the afternoon?"

Hiro smiled. "Very pleasure to meet Claire the Cheerleader!" 

"Great. You can tell her that someone from the future told her not to go out with guys who have stupid tattoos," Mr. Petrelli said, and then he was gone. 

Jack rubbed his wrist, then gestured Hiro and Ando inside. He figured on the technicality he was probably safe, since his tattoo definitely wasn't stupid, whatever Mr. Petrelli thought. Mr. Petrelli was not doing much to win Jack's vote, really.

***

CLAUDE RAINS AND PETER PETRELLI - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS

That afternoon, Claude and Peter were both sweating and out of breath by the time Peter managed to slam Claude up against a wall and pin him there; this wouldn't have been a great accomplishment, except that he did it using iron rebar. And the power of his _brain_.

Claude got his hands up and pushed against the half-dozen metal bands holding him in place. He grunted, straining, and Peter strained back, holding them there; finally Claude stopped struggling.

"Better," he said. 

"Better?" Peter asked, not moving the rebar. "That's all I get?"

"What do you want, a blowjob? Yes, that _is_ bloody well all you get," Claude retorted.

"Then I'm not letting you go," Peter said. 

"Oh, for _fuck's sake..._ "

"Not until you say, Good job, Peter Petrelli. Or, I'll give you options, you can also say, Peter Petrelli is the best empath I have ever taught."

"Peter Petrelli is the _only_ empath I have ever taught," Claude answered.

"I could leave you there all night," Peter said. 

"You could do," Claude agreed. "But if you were going to do that you should have picked somewhere else to stand."

"What?" Peter asked, right before a light fixture fell on him.

He heard Claude laughing in the distance as the rebar dropped away, and then the other man was pulling the giant contraption of piping and electrical fixtures off him. Peter felt a few broken bones knit back together and then stood up, dusting himself off.

"What was the point of that?" he asked.

"Teach you to be a smug young pup. Also, pretty funny," Claude replied. 

"So glad I amuse."

"You didn't notice me doin' it, did you? You got to be aware of your surroundings."

"I'm not training to cagefight other Empaths," Peter answered. Claude brushed metal filings from the rebar off his clothes. 

"You don't know that you won't have to. If I hadn't been there to save your arse -- "

"I'd be brain pudding for a psycho, I know," Peter said. "Are you gonna hold that over me the rest of my life?"

"I should think the fact that you're walkin' round alive on account of my heroic nature wouldn't be lost on you," Claude said. 

"I should _think_ the fact that you threw me off a _building_ would even us up!" 

Claude grinned at him. 

"Think that's the signal for class to end," he said, rolling his shoulders. Peter heard the bones in his neck crack. "Come on then."

"Where are we going?"

"Pressgang."

"What?"

Claude rolled his eyes as he passed. "It's a pub. Don't fall behind."

Peter sighed. "I'm paying, aren't I."


	13. Chapter 13

CLAUDE RAINS AND PETER PETRELLI - PRESSGANG PUB

The pub near the docks might once have been a dockworker's drinking hole, but the makeup of the city was always shifting and changing; now it was a quiet place for quiet people to get a drink where nobody would bother you, which Claude appreciated in a city like New York. 

He knew Peter wasn't really sure why he did this -- the training, followed by a late-night kebab or a beer or what have you -- but Claude had learned the value of changing tactics every once in a while. He sent Peter to find a table and picked up two beers from the bar, setting one down in front of his companion.

"So," Peter said, once they'd both settled in. "I guess you and Claire go back a ways."

"I knew her father when we worked for the Company," Claude said. "It's not relevant."

"It is to me. She's my niece. What is this Company, anyway?"

Claude snorted. "A loose association of vivisectionists and spies."

"What?"

"The bad guys."

"Claude."

Claude sipped his beer. How did you explain the Company? When he'd signed on, it was so simple and straightforward: lessons to study, orders to follow, procedures for everything, justifications for everything, reports to make it all look sanitary. 

And then the insidious creeping sensation of wrongness, the confusion, contradictions, misinformation. Discoveries. The more you knew, the more you were aware you didn't know. When they thought you were ready they took you into the observation room to watch the autopsies. And then if you showed you could stomach the autopsies, they took you into the other observation room, the one with the triple-security retina-scan locks, to watch the Procedures. 

Somewhere in the back of his memory, someone screamed. And the worst part was that he didn't remember who.

"There are two Companies," he said. "There's the one as finds people and helps them -- shows them how to use their power, sometimes even employs them. It did me. Paid me well, nice home, other people who know what it's like to be..." he laughed a little. "Different."

"And the other?"

"The other is the one that takes people without their consent and gives 'em these," he said, tapping the back of his neck where the scars were. "And if they can't learn control, or if the Company just thinks what they can control is too dangerous, it's a shunt in the brain and intravenous sedatives for the rest of their lives. Which, mercifully, are usually brief."

"You did that?"

"Parts. Some of what the Company does is good. Or was, when I was there," Claude said. "But they weren't interested in pushing boundaries. They were interested in setting them. They didn't want to see what would happen..."

Peter tilted an eyebrow. Claude turned the beer around and around in place, watching the little condensation ring on the table expand. 

"I don't believe that the extent of a man's power is the limit of his power," he said quietly. "I knew a man whose only skill was perfect and total recall, which is not as useful as you'd think in many situations. But with the right training he could have developed it into something more. He'd tried already. Forging a greater link with history -- remembering things he'd never seen. Racial, cultural memory. A sort of mental archaeologist, diggin' up the past."

"Did you teach him?" Peter asked.

"No. He died," Claude said shortly. He wasn't going to talk about Timothy. Being dissected by the Company was terrible enough without some bastard bringing it up to the new blood in town. "The point is, people are not finite. They find new limits, especially if pushed. Claire can heal, she doesn't feel pain in the same ways that we do. Imagine someday in the future, she lays hands on someone else and heals them like she heals herself. It's not impossible. With _training_. But there's nobody to teach, is there? The kiddies are afraid, like your brother. Half the old generation is dead or hiding, the rest are under permanent sedation in the Company's basements. I know. I've been there. All that latent power..."

"What about me?"

"I've told you before. You need control."

"Like you? What comes next?"

Claude smiled mirthlessly. "I've been doin' this for twenty years. If there's a next for an Empath, I don't know what it is. And I think you've seen how dangerous Empaths can be, if you get the wrong idea about what you are."

"What are we?" Peter asked.

"Well, I'm a teacher," Claude said. "And you're the little friend of all the world."

Peter looked blankly at him. Claude rubbed his eyes. Did nobody in America read?

"Do you think we have a destiny?" Peter asked.

"If we do, and I'm in mine, then I think I might have to kill myself," Claude replied.

"Don't say that," Peter snarled. Claude looked at him, eyebrows lifting.

"I didn't _mean_ it, ya punk -- "

"Don't joke about that."

Claude gave him a narrow look. "Ah. Your dad."

"How did you -- Empath. Right." Peter sighed. Claude watched him, wary of making any more smart remarks. After a while, Peter heaved a deep, dramatic breath and looked up at him.

"One more question," he said.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Claude answered.

"When we met, you said I was one of those. Not one of us, one of those. Have you ever even met another Empath? What happened to them?" Peter asked. "And why aren't you one of us?"

"That's three questions."

"Yeah, I lied about the one question thing."

Claude signalled the waitress. 

"Two doubles, vodka, stacked," he said to her. 

"Empaths Gone Wild?" Peter suggested.

"Your questions got more complicated," Claude said. "Don't know what's coming tomorrow. Tonight, I drink."

"And then answer?"

The shots arrived. Claude threw back the first double, grimacing. 

"I've never taught an Empath," he said. "Not for lack of looking. I've read about them in the Company's files. I met one, once. She came through the Company about ten years ago, but I buried her."

"You _killed_ \-- "

Claude waved a hand, annoyed. "I didn't kill her. I buried her. I told her what to do and how to do it to get off scot-free. She did what I did, only showed one power. She's wanderin' round with those hatchmarks in her neck now, but at least she's alive."

"Where?"

"Somewhere," Claude shrugged. 

"She's dangerous."

"Do you not see what's goin' on here?" Claude asked, making a circling motion with his hand. "This electrical storm of energy closin' in around you and your people? We're like canaries in a coal mine. Your explosion's sending ripples back and forth in bloody _time_ , and we're pickin' them up in the here-and-now. If she were going to blow up a major city centre, no doubt she'd have set off a few alarms by now. You'd probably be dreamin' of her yourself."

"Maybe," Peter muttered. He shook hair out of his eyes. "You never answered my other question."

"Which one's that?" Claude asked blandly.

"Why you said _them_ and not _us._ "

Claude picked up the second double-shot, held it to his lips, and threw it back. He coughed a little as it burned its way down. The lightheadedness felt good -- like the first time he'd flown. Free.

"I never asked for it," he said. "You never did either, and there are surely better candidates for the position. Better than either of us. I wasn't meant to be an Empath. I don't like other people."

"You used to."

"I _used to_ believe in the tooth fairy -- " Claude stopped, horrified at himself. 

"Do you think there's a reason we have these talents?" Peter asked in a low, almost inaudible voice.

"You mean, do I think God gave them to us?" Claude asked, sneering.

"Yeah," Peter replied, ignoring his mockery. "Do you think we were chosen specifically?"

"The idea terrifies me," Claude answered, the alcohol cracking the solid barrier between what went on in his head and what came out his mouth. "I don't want to be chosen. I never wanted to be different."

"I did," Peter said quietly.

"Bully for you then."

"You really don't want this. You _so_ don't want it that you won't even admit it's what you are," Peter said. " _That's_ why you said I was one of them. Because if we're both one of Us -- "

"We're not. There is no us, we're not friends. We'll never be friends. We're both Empaths, which means we're rivals. Even if we weren't, I don't _like_ you."

"Why do we have to be rivals?"

"Law of the jungle, mate. We're competing for advantage."

"I don't buy that," Peter said.

"You don't have to. It's true whether you believe it or not." 

"How much did you lose when you ran from the Company?" Peter asked. "Did they twist you up, or were you already this screwy?"

"Again with the questions."

"I think you're wrong," Peter declared. "I don't think we're rivals. If we're the same...I don't know, species? Then we're part of the same family."

"Jesus god!" Claude said. "Family! I swear if you say that again I'm going to pitch you off a much higher roof next time."

The hurt that flickered in Peter's face was bad, but Claude was an old hand at hurting people. It was no worse than beating him with sticks, and he did that often enough. Still, you could balm the wounds once you'd inflicted them. That was allowed.

"Before we met," he said, fuzzily, "Before you saw me, I saw you. Well, I saw something, someone. I saw that column of smoke. When we met you said you were going to expode. Well, I saw it. I saw an exploding man."

"You dreamed," Peter murmured.

"Yeah," Claude laughed a little. It _was_ a bit funny, when you thought about it. Or maybe that was the vodka.

"Can you change the future?" Peter asked.

"Fucked if I know."

"How could we see it, if it wasn't already set?" Peter looked unhappily at his empty beer glass. 

"What's the point of livin' if it's all already set?" Claude asked. "Just one big join-the-dots puzzle that doesn't amount to anything once you've finished."

"So you think we can."

Peter..." Claude covered his face with one hand, frustrated. "Sometimes you just make people want to kick you. In the head."

"You're a charming drunk. I'm trying to figure out what to do, here."

Claude shook his head. "I don't know."

"So we're both in trouble."

"Looks that way."

"What do we do?"

They stared at each other across the table, Peter actually meeting his eyes for once and Claude not looking away when he did. Of all the freaks Claude had known, of all the freaks in this city -- seemingly more every day -- the two of them were responsible. Peter by sheer stupid random genetic _luck_ , Claude by choice. 

_From now on,_ Claude said, _I go where you go._

Peter flinched at the unexpected contact, but he replied. _Why?_

_If it does happen, I don't want to be left behind._

But aloud, all he said was, "No more drinking tonight."

"No," Peter agreed. "I should head back."

"Right," Claude said. 

Because, if you don't _say_ the words, you can pretend you didn't say them.

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

TED SPRAGUE AND HANA GITELMAN - SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK STATE

"There's a man in the city," Hana said, "who can paint the future."

They were sitting in the back of a mostly-empty Amtrak car, passing through the countryside on their way to New York City. Ted looked at her. She'd weaned him down from Ketamine to Vicodin, and the world was still blurred around the edges.

"He may be able to help us," she continued. "Help us fix things, help us get back at the Company."

"That's not hard," he replied. "Fly me to Odessa. I'll take care of the rest."

"Before we know if they have a cure? Be patient," she said. "Gather intelligence first."

"How did you find out about this painter?" Ted asked.

"I get my funding from a company in New York City, Deveaux Corporation."

"Get, or _take_?"

She smiled. "Depends on who you speak to. I intercepted an e-mail from a woman named Simone Deveaux; she's the daughter of the man who owns the company. Owned; he's since died. She has many friends in the company. She told one of them that her boyfriend was delusional, that she was worried for his sanity. Isaac. A comic book artist."

She laid a stack of stapled paper on his lap. It wasn't a comic book; it was pages torn out, glued to white printer paper. Some of them had newspaper articles pasted below them. Most had two dates...a publish date and a second date, always later, telling when the event had come true.

"This is how I found you," she said, flipping to the third page. It was a cover. _9th Wonders_ read the caption. _The Little Tragedies Series_. The image was of Ted, looking down at a fireball glowing between his two hands. 

"The Little Tragedies are a series of stories about ordinary people," Hana continued, "who encounter the supernatural in tragic fashion. This story concerns a man named Ted, who goes to the ends of the earth to find out why his wife is dying, only to discover that he has killed her. With his touch. His radioactive touch."

Ted stared down, feeling the horrible emptiness, the void where his wife used to be, yawning deep and dark inside him. 

"It makes a very good short story, but a very poor life," Hana said. 

"How did he know?" Ted clenched the page so tight it crumpled. "Why didn't he find me -- "

"He didn't know you were real," Hana said gently. "He hasn't known that what he draws is a reality yet to come, not until recently. Now he knows. And he can help us find answers."

"How long until we get to New York?" Ted asked.

"A few hours. We won't be able to see him until tomorrow. Rest until then; I'll take care of everything."

***

SYLAR - LOWER EAST SIDE

Sylar wanted only two things in life, just at the moment: to torture Mohinder Suresh to death, and to remove Peter Petrelli's brain. 

He couldn't find the first man and the second was in hiding; still, Peter had to come back to his apartment sooner or later. Or one of his family did. And when they did, they would lead him straight to Peter. 

In the meantime, seeing as how it wasn't being used, he picked the lock to Peter's apartment and made himself at home. Peter had better dress sense than Zane, and a suspicious number of shoes. The fridge was stocked and his DVD collection was extensive. Sylar enjoyed being Peter Petrelli.

The guy who owned the news-stand across the street sold coffee and breakfast as well, so Sylar went down to get his food, using money he found in Peter's freezer in the envelope marked "EMERGENCIES". 

"Black coffee and a buttered bagel, right?" the man said, when he saw Sylar coming on Monday morning. 

"Yes, thank you," Sylar replied.

"You're gettin' to be a regular around here."

"Oh," Sylar pointed to the apartment building. "I live just there. It's convenient. And you make very good coffee."

"Thanks. Name's Roscoe." The man held out his hand. Sylar sighed inwardly and shook it. 

"I'm Peter Petrelli," he said.

"Hey -- not related to that Petrelli guy who's running for Congress?" Roscoe asked excitedly. "Wait!" 

He grabbed a copy of the Journal and held it out. A below-the-fold headline read _"Super" Petrelli Wants Union Backing_. Next to it was a photograph of Nathan and Peter Petrelli with an older woman who was probably their mother. 

"That you?" Roscoe asked. "You look different than your photo."

"I got a bad haircut," Sylar answered. 

"Have a copy on the house. Up, up, and away, huh? He's got my vote."

"Thank you." Sylar was about to pay for his breakfast and leave when something else caught his eye. In the comic-book rack, amid the bulging spandex-clad muscle men and the big-breasted semi-nude women, there was a cover that drew him in. 

"That's just out from the publishers today," Roscoe told him. "You like comics?"

"Not generally," Sylar answered. "But I'll take this one."

On the front cover of 9th Wonders, there was a very small boy holding a pocketwatch in his hands.

 _The Tragic Tale Of Gabriel Grey_ , read the caption, in oversized letters that dripped with blood.

***

CLAIRE BENNET, PETER PETRELLI, AND CLAUDE RAINS - THE SAFE HOUSE

Claire was getting used to being the first one up in the morning. It was kinda nice, in a way. She made herself a bowl of cereal or some eggs and looked out the window at New York or watched the local news. Nine times out of ten, there'd be some kind of mention of the election, which meant a mention of Nathan. Claire missed her dad, her adopted dad, but she knew she wouldn't see him anytime soon. Maybe not ever again. She could _see_ Nathan, at least.

She was pouring cereal into a bowl when she thought she heard something; the living room was still empty, so she chalked it up to her imagination until she was pouring the milk. Then she heard a grunt and a scuffling noise.

"Peter?" she called, peering into the living room. No answer. She was about to go back into the kitchen when she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. Something on the sofa, like a shadow. 

She came closer, only realising as she approached that she was holding her spoon up like a weapon.

Something was breathing. She could hear it. The cushions on the couch twitched as if they were alive. She watched, tilting her head, as they bounced up and down. 

Then, with an enormous sigh, a man appeared on the couch. Claire of six months ago would probably have screamed and thrown her cold cereal all over him, but now she just jerked back and kept silent, staring. 

The figure burst into visibility for a minute and then back out again; as she watched, he flickered back and forth between seen and unseen, rolling over on the couch. Claire quietly put her bowl and spoon down on the table and walked into Peter's room, where he was curled up in his bed like a dog, the blankets tangled up in a heap.

"Peter," she said quietly, sitting down on the bed.

"Mmh?" he asked, opening his eyes. "Hey."

"Peter, Claude's sleeping on our couch."

"Yeah, I know," Peter answered, pulling the blankets up over his head.

"Invisibly."

"He does that," Peter mumbled sleepily. "It's his thing. He's the invisible man."

"Well, it's wigging me out!" Claire pulled the blankets off Peter's face. "Why is Claude sleeping on our couch? You know dad's gonna drop a brick if he comes in and this random guy is here." 

"Brought him back with me. We went drinking," Peter said. "Easier to bring him here. M'goin' back to sleep."

Claire huffed and rolled off the bed, wandering back into the living room. Claude had woken up and was eating her cereal.

"Morning," she said awkwardly.

"Hi," he answered. "You're up early."

"Yeah, well, invisible people in the apartment, have to make sure they have cereal," she said. She remembered Claude's opportunism, always sneaking a bite of her ice cream or stealing her dad's fries from his plate. She didn't even bother to scold him, just fixed herself another bowl. 

"Uncle Pete up yet?" he asked, grinning at her as she came back into the living room.

"Not really."

He took a bite of cereal, talking expertly around it. "You've grown up well. Credit to your dad."

"Which one?" she asked tiredly. 

"Both, pr'aps."

"Why did dad shoot you?" she asked abruptly. "He must have had -- "

"A reason?" Claude asked drily. "I'm sure I gave him several over the years."

"I didn't mean like that," she said, ashamed.

"I know you didn't," he answered. He took another bite of cereal. "You're full young to be a part of this, but that can't be helped. I hid someone, like he hid you."

There was the sound of a door closing, and Peter emerged, rubbing his sleep-rumpled hair. As per about usual in the mornings, he was half-dressed and barely conscious.

"Oi, nobody wants to see that," Claude said. "Put a shirt on, Petrelli."

"Stuff it, freeloader," Peter replied, disappearing into the kitchen.

"He's a joy of a morning."

"He gets better after coffee," Claire replied, smiling. 

***

MATT, BENNET, AND ISAAC - NYC

Matt woke that morning to twinges of soreness in just about every muscle above the elbow. His fingers were scraped and scabbed in a dozen places and they throbbed unpleasantly. He felt like he'd been beaten with something spiky.

Bennet was gone, but his bed looked sleeped-in; maybe he was getting breakfast. At the little table in the corner, Isaac was shooting up.

"You mind?" he asked Isaac.

"Needed a fix," Isaac replied. 

"You want to do it in the bathroom or something? Somewhere I don't have to see you do it?"

Isaac smiled unpleasantly. "Hey man, you're the one who needs it."

He gestured to the opposite wall. Matt groaned. 

That was why he was so sore; they'd spent all afternoon removing the canvases from their frames, using pliers or screwdrivers or whatever they could. Once they were rolled up it had taken three trips to get them all out of the loft. Isaac was nothing if not prolific. 

He was preparing a reply when Isaac's eyes went white, and he picked up the graphite stick lying next to the syringe he'd just used. He started to draw, intently, so Matt left him to it. 

The door clicked open and Bennet appeared, carrying a paper sack in one hand. He threw it on the bed and Matt opened it, taking out a breakfast sandwich and passing the carton of fried eggs to Bennet. 

"Picasso's wasting his stash," he said, jerking his head at Isaac.

"Let him draw. Maybe he'll come up with something useful," Bennet answered. "In the meantime, we need to plan our next step."

"How about you plan your next step and I go home to my pregnant wife?" Matt asked. "Find out who this Porter guys is, get him to help you out."

"You can't go home."

"They don't care about me."

"That's probably right," Bennet said. "But they do care about me, and you know where I am, you know who I've been with, you know my daughter is here, you know Isaac is with me. And if you know it and they catch you, then they know it."

"How much longer are we going to plan?" Matt exploded. "How much longer until we can do _whatever_ it is that needs to be done to end it? I got a kid on the way. Is he gonna be born by the time I get to go home and see him? Is he gonna be _talking_ by the time you think it's safe enough for me to go back to Los Angeles?"

"We have to think about what we're doing," Bennet replied, annoyingly calm. 

"What _are_ we doing?"

"In order to bring down the company, we need to have more power than they do. We need something over them. Failing that, we need to wipe their databases, destroy their laboratories, empty their holding cells, and kill the heads of the various branches. It would set genetic research into this condition -- your condition, Isaac's condition -- back by fifty, maybe seventy years. It'll destroy decades of work. A lot of people will die. I'm not willing to do that if there's another option. I'm not going to burn them to the ground if all I have to do is stalemate them."

Matt stared at him. Bennet licked his lips.

"But if I have to destroy them completely, I will. So. Are you my friend, Matt, or are you a target?"

Matt swallowed. 

"I'm on your side," he said. 

"Good. I'm going to speak to someone today about funding. I know what we need, but it's going to be expensive to get it in New York. Stay here and keep an eye on Isaac."

Bennet loaded his gun and holstered it, checking his pockets to make sure he had the hotel key. When he was gone, Matt picked up the digital camera he'd left behind and began flicking through the images of paintings stored on it. 

Some of the paintings were abstract, the kind of thing Matt never really got or cared to hear more about. Others, though, were more compelling -- people talking, people being _chased_ , figures overshadowed by meances off to one side, out of the frame. He recognised Peter Petrelli in a few of them, and the cheerleader -- Claire, Bennet's daughter -- in others. He heard Isaac grunt as he came down from the high. 

"Your paintings," he said, while Isaac flipped through his sketchbook. "They remind me of comic books I had when I was a kid."

"Is that so," Isaac muttered. Matt flicked to a new image. Jesus, that was the chick who threw him out the window when he was protecting Malsky. And she was pointing a gun at a sleeping, dark-haired couple. 

"Who is this?" he asked. "The blonde woman, about to shoot those people."

"Don't know," Isaac answered disinterestedly.

"She's gonna kill them."

"So?"

"So don't you _care_?"

Isaac shrugged. "I used to care about that, too," he said, pointing to a half-unrolled painting, a miniature duplicate of the mural on his studio floor. "Now I hope it kills everyone."

"Why?" Matt asked, honestly perplexed. 

"Fuck you," was the only reply he got. Jeez, some things never changed no matter where you went. Junkies were still scumballs in New York, just like in LA.

But under the blatant hostility, he did catch a whiff of sadness, too. He wondered what had happened -- what kind of thing could happen -- to make Isaac think the destruction of New York was the preferable option. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC


	14. Chapter 14

JACK, HIRO, ANDO, AND NATHAN - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

The kid, Baker, turned up the next morning like a bad penny, following Hiro and Ando to headquarters. Now Nathan knew why he looked familiar; he'd been one of the volunteers yesterday. He wanted to keep an eye on all three of them, actually, since he had the sense that things were beginning to speed up, events barrelling along to some conclusion he couldn't yet see. He told his manager to put all three on phone duty or office work. Hiro and Ando went amiably enough -- they seemed to move through life pretty amiably, on balance -- but Jack gave Nathan a curious look, under his fringe of yellow hair. The kid wasn't as stupid as he acted. 

Nathan had other things to occupy his time, however. He needed to do as much as he could today; tomorrow was the election, and his day was very full. In the morning he had another guest shot on _Hello! Manhattan_ , where they were supposed to film him picking someone up to drive them to the polls like his volunteers were doing. He had to vote, of course. He had two speeches to make, then he had to get Heidi and the kids so that they could be there, and Niki wanted to meet with him again before the polls closed.

How did people like Clinton and Kennedy find _time_ to have affairs? 

He came up for air around noon, and saw that the office employees and volunteers were gathering for lunch at the big conference table, Hiro and Ando at the middle of everything, just like always. They were closest to his office door, and he listened in amusement. Hiro was arguing about time travel. Well, if anyone would know...

"No, time not linear!" Hiro insisted, taking his cup of soup and putting it in front of Jack. "Like a pond. Bowl of soup. Everything happening at once. Our _perception_ is linear."

"Yeah, okay, _but_ ," Baker replied, stabbing his fork into the soup and lifting out a carrot medallion. Nathan watched with a sort of horrified fascination. "This carrot, okay, represents...the Napoleonic wars."

Even Hiro was baffled by this. 

"Now, you take the Napoleonic Wars out of history, history -- that's the soup broth -- flows in to fill the gap, am I right?"

"Maybe," Hiro conceded. In some ways the man was a born politician; he wouldn't commit to a concept until he saw where it was headed. Bright man. 

"But the wars still exist. They're no longer in the soup, but they're still potential mass or energy. And the level of the soup as a whole has gone down. So until you put the carrot back into the flux of time..." he dropped the food back into Hiro's soup, "Something's wrong with the world."

"I am not making the world wrong," Hiro insisted. "I saved lives!"

"No! That's not what I'm saying. Saving lives, totally down with that. Here's what I'm saying. If you get rid of a huge chunk of history or an event, something's got to fill in the gap. Maybe something worse, but probably something the same -- same mass, same volume. So..."

Baker lowered his voice, and Nathan had to lean out his office to hear.

"This explosion you're worried about. Even if Claire's uncle isn't the one who goes up, someone's probably going to. I mean he's not the only one who could have this power, right? So it totally makes sense that he's not leaving. Because even if he did, New York might still explode. And maybe if he's here he can stop it."

Both men looked at the carrot medallion, floating on the surface of Hiro's soup. 

"In school, we learned about Hiroshima and Nagasaki," Hiro said quietly. 

"Me too," Jack said. "Little Boy and Fat Man."

Nathan watched the two men look at each other across a cultural gap that suddenly seemed to yawn wide and deep. He wasn't a nice man, Nathan Petrelli, but he understood the way people thought. Hiro was baffled by how such a thing could happen to his country, by how such a thing could happen to anyone, but knew in his bones that it was his people who had been brutalised by the bombs; Jack was guilty that it was his people who had done such a thing (even in war there are sometimes steps-too-far) and without the smallest clue how to make reparation, or even if he should, because his parents hadn't even been alive with the bombs fell. 

Nathan had been a soldier and knew that the atomic bombs were not the only horrors of war, but they were symbols of it. He didn't want to see New York laid waste like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This campaign might only be a stepping stone, but Nathan really loved New York, and he half-hoped that if it was destroyed he'd go down with it. 

And now here was a teenage kid and a samurai fanboy telling him obliquely that Peter _had_ to stay, because Peter could save the world as well as destroy it.

Nathan went back to work. There were things to do, an election to run, and he was a practical man. 

***

THE HAITIAN - CHICAGO O'HARE AIRPORT - ILLINOIS

The Haitian was not a Sector or a Telepath, not directly, but part of his power was in identifying another's skill before dampening it. It only worked, at least it only worked well, on mental abilities; he'd honed it to an icepick-point and was satisfied with his limitations, as the professor had taught him to be.

 _"Sooner or later you've got to choose between doing everything adequately or one thing really well," he'd said to the awkward, gawky teenage boy who was having enough trouble going through puberty, thank you, without having to work on his powers with the professor every day. His rebellious look was enough to make the professor smile. "Sorry, lad. But it's got to be that way. Now you can go round crippling people, just makin' it_ hard _on 'em, or you can fill their world with silence."_

Well, he'd made his choice and didn't regret it, especially not at the moment. Because when you trained to dampen abilities, you became sensitive to them. You could practically smell them on the wind, and right now he could use the distraction.

He'd slipped back over the Mexican border, finally, leaving Meredith Gordon quite content, without the memory of pregnancy or birth, her infant child or the sixteen-year-old daughter who'd visited her. It was better that way. But he couldn't go back to Texas, which meant flying to New York from Tucson, the nearest decent airport, and that meant connecting through O'Hare. 

He got into the airport okay. It was getting out that was proving to be tricky. His flight was now delayed another four hours, and he had nothing better to do than prowl the airport. You could usually pick out one or two people in an airport; maybe they hadn't manifested yet, but they would someday. 

He never bothered mentioning this skill to Bennet. He didn't think the Company would really properly appreciate the ramifications.

Nearby, at the food court, a young child was squalling because he was afraid of getting on an airplane. The kid's mother was trying to calm him down, but the promise of bubble gum once they were on the plane was not much incitement to stop crying. 

The Haitian watched as a young college-age woman sat down next to the pair. "Excuse me," she said. "I couldn't help overhear...can I help?"

The mother looked at her suspiciously, as would anyone in their right mind, but the woman ignored her and leaned across the table.

"Hi there," she said to the boy. "Want to see a magic trick?"

The boy sniffled and gave her a look even more suspicious than the mother, and that was when the young woman pulled an airplane out of his ear. 

It was a toy airplane, only about three inches long, but the girl was in short sleeves and he'd seen her hand. Plus, at the precise moment the airplane appeared, he scented it. Call it what you wanted -- power, difference, freakishness, mutation -- the woman had it. He'd started forward before he knew what he was doing, then stopped himself. 

The boy looked at the airplane wonderingly, tears magically ceasing. 

"Go on, take it," the woman said. "It's a lucky charm. Every time you get scared, hold onto it really tight, okay?"

The boy nodded and clutched the toy to his chest. The woman smiled at his mother. 

"I -- should pay you for the toy," the mother said.

"Oh no -- it's magic," the woman replied. "Don't worry about it. It's what I do."

The magic words, in fact. _It's what I do._ He'd heard it a lot in fourteen years with the Company.

She shook the mother's hand and he watched the mother, not the woman; the mother came away with a business card in her palm, though he could see a card hadn't been there when the woman had reached out. 

He ran to catch up with the woman, who was making her way through the crowds towards a distant gate. He blocked her path, walking backward.

"You are a magician," he said.

"Oh, you saw? With the airplane? Yeah, it's my job," she answered, grinning cheerily at him. "Well, will be. One day. Got to get that old college degree first or the parents get upset..."

"No," he said, stopping so that she'd stop. "You are a _magician._ "

She hesitated, eyes narrowing. He thought she was going to admit it, but instead she reached up and plucked a silver dollar from behind his ear and pressed it into his hand. 

"I sure am," she said, and walked around him.

"I know what you can do."

"Oh? Do you practice legerdemain too?" she asked. He blinked. "Also known as prestidigitation or sleight of hand. Or card sharping, depending on which table you sit at."

"But it is not legerdemain for you, is it?" he asked. "You make things appear. Which were not there before."

This time she stopped of her own accord. "Listen, that's how it's _supposed_ to look. I'm just good at it."

"No one is that good," he insisted. "Where did you get the airplane, hm? And this?" He held up the silver dollar. There were no dates stamped on it, and _In God We Trust_ was missing. "Not a real silver dollar."

"I'm not going to go around pulling real money out of peoples' ears," she said. "One, it's unfrugal, and two, it's immoral."

"Because it is counterfeiting," he said triumphantly. She looked put out. "You have a special talent. You can make things appear from thin air."

"I can also make them disappear," she replied. "But only when people are watching. It needs an audience to work. Who are you?"

The Haitian put the silver dollar in his pocket.

"I'm a friend," he said. "Though you do not know it yet. Where are you going?"

"New York," she said curiously. "I'm a student at NYU. My flight's delayed."

"I would like you," the Haitian said, smiling, "to show me some of your magic tricks."

***

MATT PARKMAN - NYC

Matt spent all morning on the phone, while Isaac slept or woke to sketch or bitch or shoot up again. 

There were dozens of Porters in the Metro area white pages, at least ten named Simon or something beginning with S. He called them all, never quite sure what to say, and got two message machines, one Simone Porter, and seven hangups. Not one of them, apparently, worked for a company called Hirou International or would be willing to admit to it if they did. Hirou International itself didn't exist -- not in New York, anyway. Or in California, where he tried next. There were another dozen S. Porters in LA, so he whiled away the time calling them, too.

The urge to call Janice was almost inescapable. It was so easy -- ten numbers he knew by heart. He was halfway sure Bennet was bluffing about her being watched, but what if she was? She was safer not knowing anything. If the Company had others like him, they'd be able to take it right out of her head. They'd hurt her. And their child.

He set his jaw and went back to work. 

***

BENNET - NYC

He bought a pay-as-you-go phone with enough minutes loaded on it for what he needed, and stepped outside the store to make the call. 

It was amazing, the things you could do with technology now. What they wouldn't have given for personal cellphones fifteen years ago. Now you could buy _disposable_ ones at the supermarket. 

"In Las Vegas," he told Information. "The Corinthian Hotel administrative offices, please."

Men in power had circles within circles of barriers to keep men like Bennet out -- men, that is, without power -- but Bennet was a sweet-talker from way back and he'd discovered that people were suckers for a Texas accent, which was not hard to thicken up as the job required. 

He finally got through to Sakamoto, Linderman's personal secretary, who was a steel wall. The best he could do was to tell her that Bennet, of Bennet and Claude Associates, was calling his old friend Linderman and wanted to know if he had five minutes. She said Mr. Linderman was busy. He asked if she'd at least take a second of her time (he realised it was valuable) to take him the message.

He held on the cheap cellphone for five minutes, then six. Finally there was a click on the other end.

"Bennet, my boy," said Linderman's voice. "My apologies for taking so long; I was in the gallery."

"It's not a problem, Linderman," Bennet replied. 

"It's good to hear your voice. How are you?"

"I've had better days," Bennet replied. 

"Yes, I'd heard you parted ways with the Company."

Bennet hesitated.

"Not to worry, dear boy. One hears things, that's all; this line is secure. I take it the parting was not amicable?"

"They killed my wife and son."

"I'm so sorry, Bennet."

Bennet pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "They're after my daughter as well."

"Pretty Claire? Can't have that. I assume you require my assistance? As one expat to another?" Linderman sounded arrogant -- just like he'd always been, except now he had the millions and the power to back up his arrogance. 

"I have a business proposal for you," Bennet said. "A new startup. I have two good talents on my hands, and can get at least one more if I have the resources."

"Do tell."

"I have a Telepath and a functional Precog, and I'm chasing an Autohealer. Two of them have been trained by me, the third knows me. I may also manage access to the Haitian, eventually. In the city I've already begun files on a pair of brothers who can fly. And a Sector, though he's working with Nakamura right now. I have a geneticist lined up -- " a lie, but he could coerce or convince Suresh, he was sure, " -- and I happen to know he's further along in his research than any of the Company scientists."

"Very tempting."

"All I need is a space to work and the startup capital. You won't have to get your hands dirty."

Silence. Bennet played his last card, desperately. 

"And I can tell you something else," he said.

"I'm listening," Linderman replied.

"Claude is alive."

There was another long silence on the other end of the telephone, but this time Bennet waited him out. 

"Oh yes?" Linderman said, with studied carelessness. "How unexpected. Have you met with him personally?"

"Not yet. I've seen him. He's living here, in New York. I think I can get him onboard. If you're interested," Bennet dangled the carrot carefully.

"I assume five or six hundred thousand will be enough to start? And an office property, of course."

"It's a start," Bennet said.

"No more," Linderman replied, "Until you have Claude. I'm putting Ms. Sakamoto back on; work out the investment details with her."

Bennet felt the first rush of real triumph since coming to New York. His hand tightened on the telephone.

"I'll be in touch, Linderman."

"See that you are, Bennet."

***

CLAIRE BENNET, PETER PETRELLI, AND CLAUDE RAINS - THE SAFE HOUSE

"You sit there," Claude had told her, "and keep quiet, all right?"

Claire wasn't thrilled about being told to sit still and keep quiet while the two men worked, but it was Claude's condition for letting her be there at all while he trained Peter. And the safe house was a much nicer place to train than some old factory. Besides, she wanted to watch.

Claude set a wineglass upside-down on a table in the living room, shoving Peter into a seat on one side of it. He sat on the other side, leaning forward.

Peter concentrated too hard, and the glass wobbled. Claire flinched. Claude shook his head.

"You're not tryin' to burst a blood vessel. Gravity's not the enemy; work with it. You can do it when we're fightin'; why not now?"

"I don't think about it as much," Peter said. Cracks appeared in the glass. "Claire, stop talking so loudly."

"I'm not talking," she said.

"Stop thinking, then," Peter replied, annoyed. Claire crossed her arms and sat back sullenly.

"She's not your concern right now," Claude continued. "The city's going to explode if you don't lift that glass, Petrelli. People are going to die -- "

"You're not helping!"

"So get it in the bloody air!"

The glass shot upwards and stopped, hovering and turning, a few feet above their heads. Peter let out an excited whoop. 

There was a crash as it exploded, but when Claire put her arms up to shield her face, nothing happened. Slowly, she lowered them.

Claude had one hand stretched out in front of him, towards the glass. It was stopped in the middle of exploding, an uneven sphere of glass shards, each catching and refracting the light.

"Did you stop time?" Peter asked, in an awed voice.

"No. S'telekinesis," Claude replied, closing his fist. The glass compacted slowly into a tight, glittering ball. "Glass is difficult. Fragile. People care more about it than iron or steel."

He lowered his hand and the gleaming little ball lowered itself to the table. When he opened his fist, it disentigrated into a tidy heap of shards, easily swept up into a trash bin. 

"And you don't care," Peter said.

"That's an old argument," Claude replied. "Get another glass. We'll try again."

"You could be nicer to him," Claire said, while Peter rummaged in the kitchen.

"I could be a pony, but I'm not," he replied.

"You used to be nicer."

"And look what it did for my career," he replied. She set her jaw and glared. "If we ever needed evidence you're related to the Petrellis..." He shook his head. "You were a child. He's not. You want to pay attention; might be you in that chair someday. Don't think I couldn't teach you a trick or two."

"Like what?" she challenged. He looked amused, which annoyed her even more.

"Say, one day, you walk into a hospital room. There's a man there, he's been in a car crash. His liver's failin'. Y'can't live without a liver and they can't fix it, so he's dyin'. And you step up to help, and while your hand's inside his body, you brush the liver. Just with your fingertips," he said, wiggling his own for emphasis. "Maybe it doesn't heal all the way. But the blood stops flowin' and starts circulatin' instead, and the colour changes. And he lives. Because of you."

Claire, caught up in the story he was telling, forgot to be angry. 

"That's how the Company takes you in," he continued. "They say they can teach you. They offer you power. And then one day they put a gun down in front of you and they tell you some people don't want to learn, can't be taught. There's just no helpin' some people. So take this. In case you meet one of them -- someone who should be put down. Then you decide whether you're goin' to kill those you think can't be helped, or whether you're going to try anyway and let the dice roll however they may."

Claire glanced over to see Peter, standing in the doorway, holding three wineglasses in his hand. 

"You could have killed him," she said, assembling what he was saying with what she knew about him and Peter. "Instead you decided to try and help him. Even if it risks everything."

"New York isn't everything," Claude replied. "And anyway he's hard to kill."

Claire grinned at Peter, who grinned back. "Yeah. I know."

"All right then, enough of your time-wasting," Claude said. "There's work to be done. I suppose you'll be useless tomorrow," he added to Peter.

"Yeah. I promised Nathan I'd be at the campaign headquarters tomorrow," Peter said. 

"To do what, look pretty?" Claude asked. Peter touched the awkward lock of missing-hair Sylar had taken, self-consciously. 

"We're family," he said. "Just...to be there."

"Well, in the meantime, be _here._ And you, keep quiet, he's twenty six and well able to take care of himself," he said to Claire, but he was grinning as he said it. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

SIMON PORTER - LOWER MANHATTAN

It was evening, the sun setting over the water, behind the skyline, turning everything dusky gold. Simon enjoyed the wind, cold as it was; it was blowing fresh air through the city, clearing away the stale stench that clung to people in the summertime. It would be wet tomorrow, maybe. A good day to stay indoors with hot tea, and something to keep him busy.

He stepped up and into a second-hand bookshop, browsing the New To Us shelf near the front of the store. Most books these days seemed to be either about secret societies or women who liked to shop. Not exactly his first choice in reading material. 

He browsed back into the Literature section; there was Jack London, always entertaining, and a good translation of _The Three Musketeers_. And in the science section next to it, an annotated copy of _The Descent of Man_! He'd been looking for one of those. 

He put the novels in one pocket of his coat and _The Descent of Man_ in the other, continuing to wander along the shelves. 

The woman at the cash register was talking on the telephone to someone, filling her nails and rolling her eyes expressively. 

"...bought every copy of the comic book we had. These comic book dweebs come in here, they really creep me out, at least he wasn't buying the hentai porn we keep in the back. I KNOW! It's all tentacles and tongues. Yeah. No, not even the superheroes with the big tits. Some retro thing, _Ninth Wonders_. I'm telling you, he was not a harmless geek, he was creepy!"

Simon grinned to himself as he left the shop. Youth was wasted on the young; all they seemed to know how to do was complain and compete. 

Talking of children, he should get back soon; if he left the kids to their own devices, they'd probably end up splitting a gallon of ice cream for dinner. 

***

SYLAR - PETER'S APARTMENT - MANHATTAN

The only noise in the apartment -- at least, aside from the roar of traffic below -- was the sound of paper rustling. Sylar, curled up in one of Peter's chairs with his knees to his chest, was reading every issue of Ninth Wonders he could get his hands on. 

Being a tidy and systematic person, he'd put them in date order; he was only missing a few months here and there. After a while he'd taken to playing a game with himself, figuring out which stories were true and which were just stories. He felt safe in believing that the stories of the dragon-man Uluru were probably fiction through-and-through. 

For the first time in months, he found himself completely lost in something other than his own mind. The stories were wonderful, whether they were true or not. Especially the ones about people he knew, of course, but all of them were good stories. He didn't notice the time passing or the world outside getting dark and then light again; when he finally finished the last comic, his own story, it was with a sense of thorough dissatisfaction. It ended on "to be continued" right at the point where he met Mohinder, and there was so much more story to tell!

He wondered if he would get Isaac's talent as well as his power, when he killed him. There was no doubt he _would_ kill him, but if Isaac hadn't finished the next issue he might force him to draw it first. So that he'd have one copy, at least. One beautiful picture book about Sylar. 

The sun was rising on November seventh. Down below, the world was preparing for another day, for work, for a trip to the polls to vote. Ridiculous, powerless little humans, imagining they controlled their own destiny. Sylar walked among them like a wolf in the sheep paddock. 

If he couldn't have Peter Petrelli, if he couldn't have Mohinder Suresh, he could have Isaac Mendez. That he was sure of.


	15. Chapter 15

TED SPRAGUE AND HANA GITELMAN - LOWER MANHATTAN

"Where the hell is he?" 

Ted paced the floor like a caged animal, occasionally glancing down at the painting he was walking on. 

"He may have gone," Hana said, examining the piles of wooden frames. Not a single painting remained in the studio, not even a sketchbook. Except for the one on the floor, of course. 

"Did you tell him we were coming?" Ted demanded.

"Why would I do a stupid thing like that?" she asked reasonably. "Possibly he's gone out for the day. There are a lot of people on the street; he might be selling his paintings."

"And what the hell does this mean?" Ted asked. Hana understood that the painting was frightening him, because for all he knew that mushroom cloud over New York was his fault. Still...it might not be, too. 

"He's an artist," she said soothingly. "They're all strange."

"Did I do that?" he asked.

"Probably not; it's probably some kind of a statement. Relax," she told him, drawing closer. 

"I wanna find this guy and find out what the hell to do next," Ted growled. She was behind him now, but he was distracted by the painting. 

"We will," Hana said, and shoved the needle into his neck. Ted struggled for a moment, then stopped. She pulled it out, smiling.

"Just a little relaxant," she told him, as he sagged back against her. She helped him to a chair. "You stay here and wait for Isaac, and I'll see if I can find him out in the big wide world, all right?"

"Wait for Isaac," Ted mumbled. 

"That's right."

"M'kay."

"Good."

Se hadn't given him a very strong dose; enough to keep him calm for a few hours while she had a look around the neighborhood. The painting worried her, too, very much, but without context it meant nothing.

As she left, she passed a dark-haired man just entering. He tipped his baseball cap to her and continued into the elevator. She hardly even noticed him, let alone paid him any mind. He didn't look like Isaac, anyway.

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS 

Nathan got back from voting and his first speech in time to answer a few phones calls, mostly city leaders and fellow politicians. He got about four bites of lunch in before the phone rang again.

"Thank you," he was saying, when Peter ran up and grabbed his sleeve. Peter was such a five year old, sometimes. "No, definitely. Oh yes. Absolutely. We'll be in touch."

"Nathan!" Peter said urgently. Nathan made an _I'm on the phone, dickhead_ gesture. "Hang up!"

"Yeah. I'm with you on that. Okay. Thanks for your call." Nathan hung up and looked up at Peter with enough sharp anger that Peter stopped dancing around like a moron.

"The next time I'm on the phone with Barack Obama, could you maybe give me thirty seconds to wrap it up?" he asked. 

"Come on, you gotta see this!"

Peter dragged Nathan over to a television and stood him in front of it. It was muted, the closed-captioning rolling up from the bottom of the screen and blocking the newsticker. 

A middle-aged anchorman was standing outside a building clearly marked VOTE HERE, talking to a pair of young women. They were wearing Superman t-shirts under their jackets. Remarkably tight Superman t-shirts, though that was incidental. Nathan glanced at the captioning. 

_...phenomenon has been reported all over the city at nearly every polling place and has become the unofficial symbol for the Nathan Petrelli congressional campaign..._

Some strong, odd emotion caught Nathan under the ribs, making it suddenly hard to breathe. Peter glanced up at him and saw it.

"Surprised people actually like you?" he asked.

"Just glad to see young voters exercising their right to be heard," Nathan said.

Telephones began to ring again in the office. Nathan looked longingly at the nearly untouched sandwich he'd been about to eat. 

"Only one problem now," Peter said.

"What's that?" Nathan asked.

"Living up to it," Peter replied. Someone handed Nathan a telephone.

"This is Nathan Petrelli," he said.

"Mr. Petrelli, this is Tom Nevill with Channel Four news. Are you watching television?"

"Yes, I just saw the story."

"I'd like to get a sound bite about the Superman campaign."

"Well, Tom," Nathan said cheerfully, "I wouldn't really call it a campaign."

"But you're aware of the Superman logo being used by your supporters?"

"We haven't sought permission for the logo and the campaign officially does not claim any endorsement from DC Comics," Nathan said.

"And unofficially?"

"I like to think of it as a grassroots movement to show undecided voters who's man of steel enough to represent New York," Nathan said.

"Can I quote you on that?"

"Go to town, Tom," Nathan told him. He hung up the phone and grinned at Peter.

"You're gonna look really stupid if you lose now," Peter said.

"I'm not going to lose," Nathan replied.

***

JACK, CLAIRE, AND CLAUDE - THE SAFE HOUSE 

Claude, probably just to annoy her, claimed that he didn't like Nathan. In fact, his exact words were "Every time I see one o'those posters I want to set him on fire," but Claire decided it was probably just that Claude was biased in favour of Peter, clearly the less-popular son. She couldn't lure him into watching election coverage with her, so she was glad when Jack showed up and agreeably said he'd help her root for the home team. 

By lunchtime, they'd lured Claude in anyway. He pretended he was still reading, but he'd been on the same page of National Geographic for nearly half an hour, and it didn't take anyone that long to read a magazine page, even one about boring stuff like Bonobo monkeys. 

"I'm gonna go out tomorrow and get a Superman shirt," Jack said. "You want one?"

"Yeah," she said. "I mean, if he wins. If he doesn't win he might not want to be reminded, you know?"

"He's got Hiro and Ando working for him," Jack said. "He'll win."

"You got a lot of faith in two Japanese office workers," Claude said from behind his magazine.

"You've got a lot of faith in an American hospice nurse," Claire replied. Claude snorted. "I'm going to make a sandwich, you want one?"

"I'll help," Jack said. 

"It's just sandwiches."

"I like to help. Besides, you'll never find the mustard in that fridge without me."

In the kitchen, Claire took out a loaf of bread while Jack set the cheese and turkey, ham, salami, and condiments out on the table.

"Hey, I got a question for you," he said.

"Okay..."

"Tomorrow. Your dad'll either be a congressman or he won't, right? But either way, the election'll be over."

"So?" Claire asked.

"So, how about, you want to go out somewhere? This isn't just a safety thing, right? Because you're not really...hurtable," he said. She considered it. "So mostly it's to keep reporters and people from finding out about you before the election."

"I suppose."

"Sooo," Jack said. "Come on. We'll sneak out, I'll buy you lunch, we'll go up in the Empire State Building or something. It's my first time in New York, how about you?"

"I shouldn't. He got really mad last time."

"Well, this time you can blame me. Say I kidnapped you."

"Jack!"

"What? Listen, your uncle and Claude'll be out all afternoon, we'll leave a note -- "

" -- that didn't work really well last time -- "

" -- and we'll be back before anyone notices. Promise."

She glanced at him. He was carefully not looking at her, laying out salami on a piece of bread.

"Jack," she said, "are you asking me out on a date?"

"Uh...kinda," he said, very carefully readjusting the slice of bread.

"Jack, that's...really sweet, but..."

He did look up at her then. "Hey, you know -- I didn't even ask if you had a boyfriend or anything. If you don't want to, really..."

"No, I don't have a boyfriend, oh my god," she said. "No, but I do...have a crush on this guy. And, you know how it is? It's hard to be interested in other people when you have a crush on one person, and I don't want to make you think -- "

"No, sure. I totally know how that is," he said, and she realised that the crush he was talking about, in this case, was _her._ Which was really sweet and kind of new. He paused. "Uh, who is it? I mean if you can say."

"Oh -- nobody, it wouldn't work out. I just gotta work through it, you know?"

"Sure." Jack said, slicing his sandwich in half, and then froze. "Dude, it's not your uncle, is it?"

"Jack!"

"It is!" He pointed at her and grinned. "That's totally who it is!"

"Jack, stop! It's nothing gross or anything!"

"Hey, no." Jack held up his hands. "You got a crush on Peter, that's cool, if I were a chick I would too, I hear he's hot."

"Now you're just teasing -- "

"No, seriously. It's okay. When I was fourteen, I totally dug on my really hot cousin." 

She gave him a warning look, but she couldn't help grinning. 

"And, you know," he said, more seriously, "Whatever, I'm seventeen. I'm one big unstable chemical reaction. So that could be it, like, I knew I had to find you, for whatever reason, and my hormones are saying the rest." He took a deep breath. "But I really like you, too. I mean, I know I don't know you that well, but I like talking to you. I'm secure in my manhood, I can take rejection, I can say this stuff. I think you're really cool and interesting and I want to take you to a movie. So."

Jack lifted up one foot. She blinked.

"Here's me starting off on the wrong foot, asking you out without asking about boyfriends and then making fun of your crush. Now, here's me re-starting off on the right foot," he hopped from one foot to the other. Claire giggled. "I like you. You wanna break out of this joint tomorrow and do something fun?" 

It was the least she could do. He looked like a puppy that was waiting to be kicked. 

"Sure, okay."

"Rad!" he said. "You want burgers? Or a movie? Let's go to a movie. Buy you some nachos..."

She laughed.

"Seriously, or some popcorn. I find all kinds of money in movie theaters, it's a profitable venture."

"All right, we'll go to a movie. _After_ you buy me a Superman shirt," she said. "Come on, Claude's planning to steal half your sandwich and I think he's getting hungry."

***

NATHAN AND PETER PETRELLI - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS

"That's a little bit homoerotic there, Pete. There something you're not telling me?"

"Um. I don't...did I draw that?"

"Unless you've spent the last half hour in my office obsessively staring at it. What gives?"

"I don't know. I came in to get some quiet for a little while and...I don't remember."

"Is it...y'know, of the future?"

"Maybe."

***

HANA GITELMAN - LOWER MANHATTAN

Hana had seen worse in her life than a man missing his brain.

That didn't stop her from covering her mouth and gagging when she did.

Ted lay spreadeagled on the floor, the top of his head neatly sliced off; the cap of his skull, hair still attached, was nearby. There wasn't as much blood as you'd expect, really. Or perhaps it was hard to tell blood from fire, in the painting he was lying on.

This was bad. If the painter had done this, then he might still be there. If someone else had done it -- 

She looked around. The police would come sooner or later, they always did. She picked up a painter's rag and wiped down all the surfaces she'd touched -- the railing of the stairs, the doorknob, one of the palette knives. When she was finished, she knelt by Ted's face and, using her knuckles, closed his eyes. 

" _Shma yisrael adonai eloheinu adonai ehad._ At peace with your wife," she murmured. 

Perhaps it was better this way. But it did significantly alter her plans. And at the moment, she had to get out as fast as possible. 

She shut the door behind her, still using the painter's rag, and wiped down all the buttons in the elevator. Once she was out on the street she folded it up and dropped it in the first trash can she came to. 

Then she disappeared into the teeming masses of humanity that populated New York City. 

***

MATT PARKMAN, ISAAC MENDEZ, AND BENNET - THE WAREHOUSE

"It smells like rotting sugar in here," Parkman said.

Bennet would admit that there were very few other ways to describe the smell, but he felt that Parkman was missing the bigger picture. 

"Welcome to our new home," he said. 

"No, seriously. I'm gonna have nightmares about jars of molasses chasing me around," Parkman said.

"Get over it," Bennet suggested. 

"Sorry. It's great and all, I just...are we really going to set up here?" Parkman asked. He gestured around him at the third-floor office of the warehouse that Linderman had found for him, down near the docks in lower Manhattan. It used to be a sugar refinery or something, which was why it smelled. 

"We are going to do more than set up shop," Bennet answered him. "From this warehouse we're going to build a corporation that is going to tear down Primatech and Yamagoto and all the other branches of the Company, all over the world."

Parkman smiled hesitantly.

"From here, we're going to get my daughter and your wife back," Bennet continued. "So that they're safe. Then we're going to start recruiting."

"Hey, whoa," Parkman said. "I'm only in this until I know Janice is safe."

"Come on, Parkman," Bennet said, leaning in close. "Think about this. You really want to go back to private security? Being told what to do?"

" _You_ tell me what to do."

"Only because you're new at this. I'm offering you real power. Power and the chance to make a difference."

Parkman's smile broadened a little. "But I'd still be...kinda like a cop, right? I mean, I'd be helping protect people. Saving people."

"Exactly. You and me and Isaac, we're going to start something amazing."

"Where'd you get the money for all this?"

"Private backer," Bennet replied. "All legitimate. He owns the warehouse, in fact. And by the end of the day tomorrow we'll have enough money to clear this place out, bring in some equipment, get it really going."

Parkman walked to the window where Isaac was standing, blankly gazing out at the city. Admittedly, the view wasn't much; the murky dockside river and some old abandoned baked-goods factory. But it was a start. And once he found Claire, it was a place he could bring her, to protect her. To make her a part of what he was building. 

Now all he had to do was find Claude. And, after him, Suresh. 

"When can we start?" Parkman asked.

***

_The polls close at eight._

_In New York, the machines are electronic. The information is downloaded onto a small drive, no bigger than your fist, and the results tabulated at a central agency for such things. Barring any errors, the results are available that evening._

_Across the city, most people go about their business without thinking much about politics, once they've voted. A great many of them haven't even taken the time out of their schedule to make themselves heard. They don't think about the cost of the rights they are throwing away. But then, nobody's perfect, and there are kids to cook dinner for, and someone has to do the dishes, and it's so hard to keep a house clean when you work twelve hours a day or have the bills to worry about -- and was today the day you were supposed to vote? Are you registered? Hell with it, it's not like you know who the candidates are._

_Oscar Davidson is not sure what has happened. As the incumbent, it should have been a relatively easy win. But then the unions abandoned him, and there were people in the street wearing that stupid S on their chests, and perhaps it_ is _time to retire and write that memoir about New York politics he's been meaning to work on._

_Bennet and Parkman pay no attention to the television; they have work to do, including shifting all of Isaac's paintings to the new warehouse and making it secure._

_Just now touching down at LaGuardia after a terrible night in O'Hare, the Haitian and his new friend Amy Martin -- aka The Mysterious Morgana -- are assured by the pilot that New York natives will have election results any time now._

_Nathan sits alone in his office, biting his thumbnail, while outside Peter shares his coffee with Heidi and Mom watches the Petrelli sons play tag around the conference table. In a minute or two, unable to stand the solitude, Nathan will walk out just in time to see the results._

_Hiro and Ando, surprised by how worried they are over an election in a country other than their own, try to make small talk but fail, both of them watching the TV screens._

_In a little fifth floor apartment, Claire reaches out and takes Jack's hand for reassurance, and Jack feels his heart beat faster._

_The nurses talk about how handsome Nathan Petrelli is, not to mention his hot alterna-boy younger brother, while Mohinder sleeps undisturbed in the next room._

_Ted's closed, unseeing eyes do not move; he is not asleep._

_Jessica and Micah, who have been working on his social studies paper all day, play a game where Micah guesses who's winning in every voting machine. Micah kind of wants Nathan Petrelli to win, and you never know...it might influence things, she thinks._

_Simon Porter, who really doesn't think anything much will change, whoever gets elected, escapes to the street and buys himself a hot dog, discussing the weather with the vendor._

_Sylar tries and tries to paint, but the more frustrated he becomes, the less able he is to control Isaac's power. Now, when he touches the paper, sometimes he leaves scorchmarks, and the pen melts in his hand._

***

THE PETRELLI FAMILY, ANDO, HIRO, AND THE PETRELLI CAMPAIGN VOLUNTEERS AND STAFF - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS

Just for a moment, everyone is special. 

Nathan, amid the cheers, wondered if he had gone deaf. He couldn't hear anything but his own thoughts, even though he _knew_ Peter was yelling and their mother was saying something about _A congressman in the family!_ and Heidi was holding his hand so tightly he thought she might snap some bones. 

What he saw were his volunteers cheering, his staff members hugging each other and reaching out to slap his campaign manager on the back. He saw Ando and Hiro staring in awe at the television screen, a calm little oasis, perplexed that they helped to cause this chaos. One stupid little two-dollar enamel pin Hiro picked up on a whim, and New York had a new congressman. 

Except it wasn't just Hiro's little pin, it was all the people who thought Nathan might be the right guy, that he was enough like them to represent their interests when laws were made. Every single one of them tonight got at least a little dose of the adrenaline rush he was feeling. Everyone felt like it was them who caused all this. If you could bottle the emotion these people were feeling, something he didn't even think had a name, the human race could really get somewhere. The feeling you were part of something good, and happy just to have been a small part of it...

"Nathan! NATHAN!"

Nathan dropped back down to earth when Peter grabbed his arm. 

"Come on! Hey! Congressman!" Peter yelled. "They got a loudspeaker set up outside, you gotta _see this!_ "

Nathan looked out the window. The rain had stopped around mid-day, and outside his campaign manager was plugging in a microphone. A crowd was gathering. About two-thirds of them were wearing Superman shirts. 

"Pete, here, take this," Nathan grabbed Mom's cellphone out of her bag and passed it to him. "You want to make some trouble?"

Peter grinned at him. Suddenly both of them were kids again.

"Yeah," he said. 

"Okay. When I do this, call my phone, okay?"

"What?"

"Just, watch while I'm making the speech. When I move my hand like this..." Nathan cupped his left hand and gestured across his body, "Call my phone. You can hang up as soon as I answer."

"What's the plan?"

"Just trust me."

Peter gripped his arm. "Always."

Nathan nodded; Peter nodded back. 

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," said his campaign manager, the microphone amplification echoing back through the glass. Peter slipped out through the side door and joined the crowd in the streets. "IT IS MY GREAT PLEASURE TO PRESENT YOUR NEW YORK CITY CONGRESSIONAL REPRESENTATIVE..."

A huge cheer.

"NATHAN PETRELLI - SENATOR SUPERMAN!" 

"Paul Levitz is going to sue us," Heidi murmured.

"I'll make it up to him," Nathan said. He stepped out the door, Heidi following behind, with Mom leading his sons along too. Hard to believe that a month ago he'd been eight points down, with a brother who was inches from crazyville and a wife he didn't know how to talk to anymore.

He saw Hiro and Ando in the crowd -- lucky charms if ever they existed -- and tipped Hiro a wink. 

Time to take the podium and assume power -- real power, his idea of power. Time to step up and into the big game. 

But first...

"Thank you -- hey, rowdies in the back, quiet down," he said. Laughter settled the applause into a faint murmur. "Thank you all for coming out tonight. I'd like to take a minute to thank my colleague, Oscar Davidson, for an incredible race. I also need to say thank you to all the staff and volunteers, to everyone who voted for me today or lobbied others to vote. We're talking about more than just a new congressman for New York City -- we're talking about a new _era._ "

The crowd cheered again. Nathan glanced at his sons; Simon was staring at the assemblage with huge eyes, and Monty was sucking his thumb. 

"Today, as with every election day -- " Nathan made the signal gesture, and saw Peter dialing out of the corner of his eye, " -- we exercise our right to choose our own -- "

His cellphone rang. He paused. 

"To choose our own representatives -- "

Second ring. The crowd murmured awkwardly.

"Excuse me," Nathan said, and took his phone out of his pocket. "I just need to take this call..."

He answered the phone and heard the click as Peter hung up. His mother and wife were staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Uh-huh...sure...my pleasure." He covered the mouthpiece and leaned into the microphone. "Hey guys. It's DC Comics. They say thanks for the free publicity."

The crowd burst into laughter and applause. He saw Peter laughing too. 

Some days, it was good to be Nathan Petrelli.


	16. Chapter 16

JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - NEW YORK CITY MAY NOT SURVIVE

"So," Jack said, flopping on the sofa. "I weaseled the Versa away from Ando, we can go anywhere in the city. And I always know where a parking space is."

Claire grinned. 

"Now all I need to know," he continued, "is how we sneak out of here."

"Well, last time I went out the window," Claire said. Jack looked over at the window, several floors above ground.

"I'm not really sure that's a viable solution for me," he said.

"Okay, so you go out the door and get the car ready, and I'll go out the window. It only takes a minute or two."

"There's got to be an easier way."

"It's fine. As long as I don't land on my head."

Jack frowned. "I don't like...have to watch, do I?"

"God, you're a wimp."

"All right. I go. When you hear the car horn, jump out the window. _Feet first_ ," he added. 

He didn't watch, but he heard the crunch when she hit the ground. This was going to take some getting used to. 

"Okay," she said, getting into the Versa. "Just have to relocate my wrist..."

"Ew noooo..." Jack turned up the radio to drown out the sound of her bones relocating. "Okay. So. You want to go see a movie? We're in Greenwich Village, there's probably some killer stores around."

"I don't have any money -- well, I've got ten bucks," she said.

"Not a problem," Jack replied, holding up a plastic bag. Several wads of scuzzy-looking bills were inside. "It's not the cleanest in the world, but it'll spend well."

"I want to see New York," she said. 

"Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building? Your driver awaits."

"Breathe," she said, smiling. "You're pretty enthusiastic."

"I grew up in a small town. Hey, you want to see the Natural History Museum? Metropolitan Museum of Art?"

"God, it's like a school field trip."

Jack laughed. "Okay, no museums. You want to go watch people deal drugs in Central Park?"

"Let's go to Times Square."

"Yeah?" Jack nodded. "Off we go. Hold on tight, I make sudden stops and turns."

"Odessa was pretty small too," Claire said. "Not like, freakishly small."

"Yeah, Ojai was okay. But you know. Not New York."

"No. Definitely not New York," she said, looking out the window. "Do you miss it?"

"Nah. Ojai isn't going anywhere, anyway. It'll be there when I'm done."

"But..." she frowned. "Don't you miss your friends? Your parents?"

"I dunno, I didn't think much about it. Do you?"

"Yeah. Sometimes a lot. I mean I didn't -- well, I didn't have very many real friends," she said. "But I miss them. And my parents."

"I guess it's different when you know you can't just get on a plane and go home."

"Sorry, I'm totally ruining our jailbreak."

"No, it's cool," Jack said. "Like...I don't want to sound all guidance counselor or anything, but you're here now, you know? Life's amazing. You can't really say when anything is gonna happen. So you might as well have a good time."

She grinned. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. "You totally sound like a guidance counselor."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE

***

SYLAR - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Sylar could feel his head aching and wanted cleaner air than Peter Petrelli's stuffy little apartment; if he could just get his mind clear he was sure he could master Isaac's power. If he could get the scent of burning out of his nostrils, if he could just stop his skin from prickling with heat, he could master this new power before it mastered him.

He was all right until he hit street level and took off his coat, letting the cold air wash over his skin. People stared at him as he passed, underdressed for the freezing weather following the rain that had fallen on New York that morning. He didn't hear their thoughts but he felt their emotions, a jumble of confusion and hatred, a _dismissal_ that Sylar had not seen since his father died. Nothing special; just another downtown Crazy. 

He tried to get away from them but every time he left one behind, another seemed to appear. He zigzagged through the streets, walking for hours, blindly wandering nearer and nearer to the heart of Manhattan. God, if only the burning smell would go away. 

A man walked into him, bumped his shoulder, and he staggered.

"Fucking junkie," the man muttered. Sylar listened hard and heard the man's heart ticking. He tried to reach out and stop it, but instead he stretched out one hand and it _burned_. 

He turned it over, amazed. His bones glowed white inside his skin. Nobody else was paying attention to him in the slightest. That was New York for you, Chandra would have said. 

He stumbled off the curb and nearly got run over by a car. He tried to stop it and his other hand began to glow.

Oh god. Oh sweet god, forgive this sinner, forgive me father I have sinned I have killed the _wrong man_...

He knew now. He had killed someone waiting for Isaac, not Isaac himself. Someone with so much power it overflowed his body, loosened the bolts that kept a person's sanity in. A man who could burn the very atoms of the world.

He looked up and saw across the street a name that he tasted on his tongue like acid.

_Petrelli for Congress._

Sylar stumbled another few feet, halted himself before being hit by a car, and began to scream. 

***

SIMON PORTER - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Simon was bored. It was his first time off in ages; he'd been concentrating so hard on the work he felt like he could sleep for a week. He _had_ slept a lot of yesterday. Good thing too, or he might be near collapse. That'd be amusing, at least.

He rambled down to Midtown, where he rarely ventured -- too many people, really. He knew the whole city, of course, he'd made a point to learn it when he moved here, but he was pleased nonetheless that he could still navigate with no problem, and that some of his favorite places to eat were still here. 

He ought to find some kind of useful occupation. He did know people in the city, at least; perhaps he could drop in on -- 

"Petrelli," he muttered, without knowing why. He looked around, cautiously.

His confusion was drowned out when he heard another sound, though -- the sound of screaming. Most New Yorkers were used to the panhandlers and prophets who spent the day wandering the streets, but not many of them screamed like that.

Down the block, right near the _Petrelli for Congress_ banner. Across the street -- no, halfway across, in the middle of traffic -- a man clutched at his head and screamed. 

Simon Porter took off running. 

***

MATT, BENNET, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN 

"Do you think it's safe to leave Isaac alone?" Matt asked, following Bennet through the city like a puppy. "Where the hell are we going, anyway?"

"He's painting. When he comes down he'll sleep it off. We have at least two hours," Bennet answered. "We're going to meet a flying man."

"What the hell's a flying man?"

"A man. Who can fly. Not one of my more successful attempts at recruitment," Bennet said tightly. He pointed to the banner nearby. _Petrelli for Congress_. 

"He works for a politician?" Matt asked.

"He _is_ the politician."

"And you couldn't just phone him?"

"He doesn't like me," Bennet said. "Not that I blame him. But I think he might be more amenable to a second discussion if I have someone along who can verify my story." He gave Matt a mirthless smile. "Who better than a cop?"

"Yeah, well, I heard the guy's soft on crime."

Bennet wasn't sure how he was going to talk his way into Petrelli's office, but at least he could give him the shock of his life. He was owed for last time, when Nathan Petrelli had kicked him hard enough to make his hand tingle and go numb as he dropped his weapon. 

He had gotten into the habit of looking at every blonde girl he passed, every blonde girl of a certain age, a certain height. Sometimes his heart leapt into his throat and he thought, _that's her_ , but it never was. He hadn't realised how many long-haired blonde teenagers there were, until only one of them mattered.

Even as his mind told him it was another trick, his eyes lighted on a pair of fair heads, bent together over a tourism book. He couldn't see the girl's face, but her hair -- and the way she wore her clothing, one hip cocked, feet planted firmly on the ground (cheerleading stance)...

"Claire?" he said, stopping abruptly.

"What?" Matt asked. "Hey, look out, some dude's about to get mown down over there."

"CLAIRE!" Bennet shouted, and the girl raised her head, looking around. Oh god. It was Claire. " _CLAIRE!_ "

He saw her, through traffic, mouth the word _Dad?_ in disbelief just as a truck came past, blaring its horn.

And then he heard the screaming. 

Matt disappeared from his side, running towards some crazy man screaming somewhere down the street. Bennet moved uneasily along the edge of the curb, trying to find a gap through which he could get across. His daughter was four lanes away from him, less than thirty feet, but even as she stared wide-eyed at him the young man with her took her wrist and pulled her away.

He screamed her name again, but the other man's screaming drowned him out. There was a strange hiccup in reality, as if time had momentarily skipped a beat, and then Claire was gone. 

Bennet stood frozen to the spot, chest heaving, scanning for his daughter. Neither she nor the boy with her were anywhere to be seen. 

The boy.

Jack Baker.

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN 

"I appreciate you being here today, Pete," Nathan said, clapping Peter on the back. Peter, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window, frowned. "Something wrong?"

"No, just -- I feel restless. Guess it's all that election day energy finally wearing off." Peter said, his tone making it clear he thought _election day energy_ was something of a joke. Nathan let it pass, probably because Peter'd been right there shouting with the rest of them last night. "I think I'll get some fresh air."

"Not a bad idea. I've got meetings up to here, but I think I have five minutes now."

Peter shook his head. "Don't feel like you have to."

"I want to. Besides, I need to talk to you."

Peter felt himself being navigated through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, Nathan's hand on his elbow. They stepped out of the way, down near the street where an ornamental tree in a little planter box was pretty well on its way to being kindling.

"Listen, Pete," Nathan said, though Peter felt his restlessness increasing. He wanted to be anywhere else right now but listening to Nathan talk about politics. "I've been thinking. That job offer's still good, if you want it. I mean, not volunteer co-ordinator, obviously, but I could still use you as a general manager for the staff. They like you."

"Sure, whatever," Peter said, his heartrate increasing. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Peter looked up when the screaming started; it slid through his brain like a knife. He saw, in the middle of the street, a man grabbing his head, ripping a baseball cap off, clutching at the short bristling strands of hair on his scalp.

"Sylar," he said. 

"What?" Nathan asked. "Jeez, somebody put that guy out of his misery -- "

"It's Sylar," Peter said. He saw it all at once, clearly; he saw Sylar standing in traffic, even saw himself on the curb with white eyes, Nathan staring at him with fear clearly written on his face. "It's Sylar, and he's going to destroy New York."

He moved to go to him but Nathan caught him around the waist. 

"You can't walk out into traffic!" he said into Peter's ear. "Peter, stop struggling!"

"I took his power," Sylar moaned, though Peter was almost certain it was in his head alone that he heard it. "I took his power and I can't control it!"

"Wait! Let me go!" Peter shouted. "I can help him! SYLAR! I CAN -- "

The rest of his scream was drowned out by a truck blowing its horn as it passed. He looked to his left, on instinct, and saw Claire there too, his own blood Claire. _Daughter of my brother --_

To his right, Claude was standing, a few feet away, uncertain what to do. Behind him, Hiro and Ando were emerging from the office; next to them a blonde woman had been about to enter, until she saw Nathan on the curb. 

"Nathan, I can help him! He's going to blow if we don't stop him! Claude, HELP ME!"

" **Let him go** ," Claude said.

Peter broke free from Nathan's grasp and plunged headlong into traffic, purpose clear. He saw Jack take Claire's wrist and begin to run in the opposite direction; Ando and Hiro got as far as the curb before the roaring cars stopped them. Another man -- the cop from Texas, Parkman -- was running towards Sylar too, barrelling down the median. Peter had time to register a ghostly afterimage of a badge on his chest before Sylar screamed, not just rage but pain and fear, too. Like an animal, tormented by something it didn't understand.

Parkman was too far away, and _everyone_ was too close; no chance of surviving the blast.

There was a moment when time stopped, and he knew it was Hiro's doing; without that he would have run right in front of an oncoming minivan which would have flattened him, but as it was he whipped past it without slowing his pace. 

He had no idea what he was going to do until he did it. Even as he approached he saw that Hiro's time-freeze hadn't affected Sylar in the slightest. There was fire in the other man's eyes and the white-red glow of his hands was almost blinding. 

Most of Peter's mind panicked, even as some part breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't his fault.

But it would be, if he didn't do something now. _If you have the power to end something and you don't, you become part of the problem._

Peter threw himself into Sylar with all his weight, skidding them off-balance and wrapping both arms around the screaming man. His clothes burned on contact and the reek of singed flesh filled the air. Sylar didn't even seem to need to stop for breath. He just screamed and screamed. 

Time sped back up and a car roared past. 

Peter thought of safety, of a wide expanse of emptiness where they could disappear to, of the way he'd always thought the desert looked. Above Sylar's screams he heard a kind of dominant silence, a missing top note, but before he could discover what was wrong, _it_ happened. 

He had been shown a film once, in high-school history class, about how nobody could know what it was like to be at the epicenter of an atomic blast. All he remembered from it was that you went blind just by looking at it. 

As the blast passed through skin, muscle, organ, and bone, Peter felt Sylar's body shuddering in his arms. Their foreheads were pressed together, breath mingling, when the screaming finally stopped.

Fire danced between them and then Peter was part of the fire too, his body intertwined with the body of Gabriel Grey. One body, one life, one column of fire all there was -- the powerful manifestation of such a small part of the universe, just an atom, showing its force. For a moment he felt his body coming apart at the place where each cell joined the next, and in the glorious explosion he danced as part of the world, indistinguishable and inextricable. 

***

MOHINDER SURESH - NYC

_He sleeps._

_Or does he? Does he dream?_

_Is it sleep if you never wake, or is it only breathing death? Is it death if the heart still beats?_

_And_ does _he dream?_

_Shanti is there with him in his half-life, still a child of five, not a sister except in blood. But Shanti loves her brother and wants to help him; she touches his forehead -- the centre, the seat of the third eye, pineal gland, trepannage site. Then, as he watches, she touches his left eye, the lid protectively flicking down at the last minute. Her chubby child finger on his eyelid is cool and soft, lingering only for a moment._

_When she takes her hand away, pain spikes through his brain, and he screams._

Mr. Smith woke screaming, his heart monitor going haywire as his pulse spiked, EEG rattling unsettlingly as he jerked from a comatose state into waking. 

His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to sort out where he was and how he'd come to be there, and when the nurse tried to stop him from moving he grasped her hand on his chest and stammered in fear. The syllables made no sense to her and she wondered if he'd suffered neurological damage, but then she realised he thought he was making sense -- he was speaking in another language, and expecting her to answer. 

"Sir," she said, "I don't understand. Do you speak any English?"

He stiffened in shock, but his next words were in English, in what the nurse considered a swoonworthy accent.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're at Grace Hospital in New York," she said. "Please, sir, try to relax."

"What am I doing in New York?" he demanded. "Is my father here?"

"You haven't had any visitors, Mr. Smith."

"Smith! My name is Suresh! Mohinder Suresh!"

"If you don't calm down we'll have to sedate you, Mr. Smith."

"No, honestly," he insisted. "My name is Suresh."

"I'm sure we can straighten that out soon, sir. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"No..." he trailed off, leaning back on the hospital pillow. "I don't even know how I got to New York."

"A little amnesia isn't unusual," she said, trying to reassure him. "Do you know the date?"

"It's..." his brow furrowed. "August. Isn't it? Have I been unconscious long?"

"No, only a few days," she said. "But it's November now."

"I see," he said, frowning. "May I ask another question?"

"I'll try to help you if I can, sir."

"Can you tell me why I can't see anything?"

***

JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

"Jack, stop!" Claire called, pulled along behind him as he bolted away. "It won't matter!" she added. "If the explosion goes -- "

Jack didn't respond; instead he tugged her around by the arm and pushed her into a stairwell.

"Bomb shelter," he said, yanking open the door at the bottom and bolting through. Inside the basement was another door, round and thick like a bank vault. Jack pulled it shut behind them.

"We'll be safe here," he said in the darkness, catching his breath. 

"But if -- "

"Don't think about it," he replied fiercely. "We'll hear it if it happens -- until then, try not to think."

"Jack, I'm scared."

"Me too."

"Where are you?"

"Stay still," he said. "I'll find you."

She giggled hysterically -- of course he would find her, that was what Jack did -- and after a second she felt his hand in hers. She turned slightly, wanting to face him, and felt his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. She pressed her face against his shoulder, trying not to think. 

"It'll be fine," he said. "Couple of hours from now we'll laugh about this."

"You don't know that."

"It's pretty funny."

"What if Peter -- "

"I didn't come here from Ojai to get blown up," Jack said. "And I don't think all the crazy shit going down in this city was meant to end this way."

"But the paintings..."

"Shh." Jack's hands touched her face -- weird, kind of scary, especially in the dark. She raised her chin and felt his lips touch hers.

"Don't think," he said, and she tried not to, because it was so overwhelming. Fear and worry, adrenaline, rising grief -- 

Jack walked her backwards and she went trustingly, knowing he could find his way in the dark. She felt a cool, dry wall against her back even as Jack deepened the kiss.

It was sort of working, really -- the only thought in her mind was that she was french-kissing a cute boy in a bomb shelter, waiting for the world to end.

He pulled back slightly, breathing hard.

"Sorry," he said. "I lied about that whole not-being-a-date thing, I guess."

"It's okay," she replied. "I -- "

She felt his body tense and broke off suddenly. 

"What is it?" she asked, her hands still resting on his shoulders.

"Vision," he rasped. "Jesus -- I can see -- hold still."

"What do you see?"

"Peter."

Claire held as still as possible. She hardly breathed. She wished she could at least see his face. 

"He's not here," Jack said finally. "Not in New York. Hot -- the sky is burning where he is. But..."

Claire tightened her grip.

"We're safe," Jack said. "And he's alive, somewhere. Come on."

They emerged, blinking, into the glary sunlight outside and climbed the stairs together. At the top, Jack lifted his head and listened to some instinct only he could sense.

"Let's find your dad," he said. "He might know what happened."

***

NATHAN, CLAUDE, JACK, AND CLAIRE - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Nathan was still standing, staring disbelievingly at the empty spot where his brother had been, when someone grabbed him roughly and shook him.

"Snap out of it," said a voice, and Nathan looked around to see the invisible man from his car, days ago, holding tightly to his arm. "Come on."

"What -- " Nathan pointed to where Peter had been.

"He's your brother, he's taken Sylar away, and we need to find him. Get inside," the man urged. Claude, that was his name. 

"What's inside?" Nathan asked stupidly, as he was dragged back into his own campaign headquarters. 

"Television," Claude replied grimly. "The internet. The fastest way to find out where a nuclear explosion has gone off."

"A nuclear -- oh, Jesus," Nathan said. "Peter."

"Wasn't him. He's been empathising all these weeks, the little idiot," Claude said, picking up a remote control and twiddling the buttons madly. 

"But he -- the other man -- "

"Here, you do this," Claude said, throwing the remote at him and running to one of the computers. Nathan flicked through the channels to CNN, watching Claude type madly. 

"He took Sylar somewhere. Hopefully somewhere safe," Claude said as he worked. "He may be dead. They may both be dead. They may both be alive."

"Nobody is going to survive that kind of -- "

"Nobody can bloody well fly, either. Shut your mouth and keep looking."

Nathan tried MSNBC. He even, out of desperation, tried FOX news, where people were already saying he was going to make an awful congressman. 

A door slammed somewhere in the building and Nathan turned.

"Dad," Claire said, running forward. Jack was behind her, and Nathan was officially going to kill Jack. He caught her in his arms and let her bury her face in his shirt. 

"Claire, what the hell are you doing out -- "

"Sorry, it's my fault," Jack said, coming forward also. "I snuck her out. I was just gonna buy her a Superman shirt..."

"And then New York nearly blew up," Nathan snarled. "That tell you how wise a decision that was?"

"AHA!" Claude shouted, and all three of them turned to look at him. "Got it."

"What?" Nathan asked, releasing Claire so that he could get a better look.

"Good boy. _Good_ boy," Claude said approvingly. 

"What am I looking at?" Nathan asked.

"The United States, ya twat."

"I know _that._ "

"National Weather Service," Claude continued. "Satellite imaging updated every ten minutes. There we are..." He pointed to an odd, lumpy-looking shape in the southwest. "That's an atomic blast, that is."

Nathan swallowed. "But you don't know...if Peter's alive."

"I do," Jack said. Nathan turned to glare at him. "What? I do. When we were uh..."

"...hiding," Claire said. "Jack had a vision. He said Peter's safe. Somewhere the sky is burning."

"Right," Claude said. "For a given value of safe. I'll fetch him."

Nathan grabbed his arm. "I'm coming with you."

"Doesn't work that way. I'm taking the fast route," Claude said. "Can't drag you along and drag you and Peter back with me."

"I've clocked my airspeed," Nathan retorted. "I can be there in minutes."

Claude looked speculatively from Nathan to Claire, which Nathan did not think was a good sign.

"You," he said to Jack. "Mind the shop. And you, Petrelli, grab a map and fly your arse to Socorro."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm taking the indestructible one with me," Claude replied. "Fancy a trip, Claire?"

"It's okay," Claire told him, when he tried to shove Claude back. "He's a friend of my father's."

Claude wrapped his arms around Nathan's daughter from behind and both of them disappeared. There was a faint pop as air rushed in to fill the space they'd been. 

"I'm not done with you," Nathan said to Jack, then ran for the stairs. If he was going to take off flying in the middle of New York City, at least he could do it from the rooftop.


	17. Chapter 17

PETER PETRELLI AND GABRIEL GREY - GROUND ZERO

When Peter woke, it was to the warm feel of glass under his cheek and his own sweat pooling under his body. He pushed himself up with a start and found that he lay in the shadow of some kind of crater, its bowl shining oddly in the sun. The glass under his hands and knees was rough, spotted with small pockets of sand.

Another body lay nearby and it wasn't until Peter saw Gabriel( _sylar_ )Gabriel's pale skin, scorching in the heat, that he realised he was naked as well, his clothing burned away in the blast. He scrambled to his feet and half-fell, half-ran to where the other man lay. In the sun, the heat was merciless and the glass hurt his feet. 

He dropped next to Gabriel and lifted his head, resting it on his knees. Sylar was burned away, hate was burned away, fear and revenge immolated in the blast. 

Gabriel's lips, blistered and bleeding, parted with a dry crackling sound. His skin was burned too, white and oozing where it touched the ground. Peter tried to reach him with his mind, but instead he felt a gentle probing touch -- a summons.

_Peter._

Peter pulled Gabriel into the shade and laid his head on the cooler glass. Then he stood up. 

_Claude?_ He scrambled to the shallow sloping wall of the crater and up, searching. _Claude? Is that you?_

Above the lip, sand stretched out for miles in all directions, the mountains a distant smudge on the horizon. Nearby was a heap of slag and rock, some kind of melted construction. 

This was not New York, had never been New York.

Peter dropped down again into the sand, curling up and weeping with relief.

 _Peter_ , he heard again. _Where are you?_

 _I don't know,_ Peter answered. _I'm in a desert somewhere._

 _I know_ that _, idiot,_ Claude replied. Peter wasn't sure if he was hallucinating the touch on his mind, but if so, his hallucination was very true to life. He became aware that he was thirsty, and that his face ached strangely. _Are you still near the epicenter?_

Peter looked down at the crater, with its chunks of glass where the sand had melted and fused in the nuclear blast.

 _Yeah,_ he answered drily.

_Walk east._

_Which way is that?_

There was an irritated huff. _Away from the sunset, bright boy._

 _Come find me,_ Peter said plaintively.

 _Can't do that,_ Claude answered. _Radiation'll kill me._

 _I can't walk and carry Gabriel too,_ Peter said, ready to scream with frustration.

 _He's dying,_ Claude said ruthlessly. _Leave him._

"He's right," came a voice from behind him. Peter saw Gabriel pull himself up over the lip of the crater. "Whoever he is," he croaked, "he's right."

"You aren't dead yet," Peter said.

"Hubris," Gabriel spat blood. 

"What?"

"This is my comeuppance."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you believe..." Gabriel breathed, then closed his eyes. Peter watched his chest rise and fall.

 _If you believe in evolutionary superiority,_ Gabriel said, _if you're willing to sacrifice the inferior to your own superior ends...then when you find your superior, you should be willing to sacrifice yourself. You are my genetic superior. I sacrifice myself for you._

 _You're burning daylight,_ Claude added.

"Go," Gabriel grunted. "Walk away. I'm sorry. Tell them all I'm sorry."

Peter set his jaw and put his back to the sun. The sand scorched the soles of his feet and sweat tricked down his skin, making rivulets in the grime on his body as he moved. 

_Good pup,_ Claude said.

 _How far?_ Peter asked. _I'm tired._

_Not far._

_Liar._

_You'll either walk or you won't,_ Claude said. _Quit fretting or curl up and die._

 _Are you here?_ Peter asked.

 _I'm here,_ Claude answered, in an odd tone Peter had never heard before. _As close as I can get. Keep walking._

 _Easy for you to say,_ Peter said lightly, trying not to show how desperate he was.

 _Mind me, Petrelli, or I'm liable to whop you in the head,_ Claude replied.

Peter laughed a little as he walked, the sun burning across the sands of the Trinity Site, the sweat dripping down.

***

JACK, HIRO, AND ANDO - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERs - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

Jack had found a small kitchen, all but forgotten after they put a fridge and microwave in near the copiers. He also located all the fixings he required, and disappeared for ten minutes.

"Did I miss anything awesome?" he asked, returning to Mr. Petrelli's office. Hiro and Ando were sitting on his couch, watching a small television; Jack slid over the arm and settled in next to Hiro, placing a giant bowl of buttered popcorn on Hiro's lap. 

"Not really," Ando answered, taking a handful of popcorn. On the TV, a computer rendition of a nuclear explosion decimated New York.

"A blast of this size, while causing damage only to the extent of three or four miles, would fill an area comparable to metropolitan New York with toxic radiation," the newsanchor narrated.

"You ain't just whistlin' Dixie," Jack told the screen. 

"Are you sure Peter Petrelli is alive?" Hiro asked.

"Yup. No odds on the other guy, though," Jack replied. "I don't know about him. Peter's on his way home."

"How do you know?" Ando asked.

"I just do."

On the TV, someone was now pontificating about whether or not this was a bomb test, an unexploded experiment from the forties, or some kind of bizarre terrorist threat. 

Suddenly, the reception shorted out and the screen went to test-pattern for a minute.

"The suspense is killing me," Jack said, eating another handful of popcorn. An image appeared on the screen -- a large crater, filmed at an oblique angle from overhead. All three men leaned forward.

"We are getting reports that the body of a man has been sighted, an apparent victim of the blast. We are told he is definitely dead -- as you would imagine anyone would be. We are also told, if you look low in the lower right corner of your screen, that is all that remains of the marker which identified ground zero of the very first nuclear test in 1945, the Trinity Test. It looks as though the rock itself has melted..."

"Trinitite," Jack said.

"What?" Hiro asked.

"See how the crater sparkles? It looks almost green?"

Hiro nodded.

"That's where the blast melted the sand. It's, like, radioactive glass. They called it trinitite."

"But where is Peter?" Hiro asked. Jack's lips thinned into a pale line.

"I can't find him yet," he said. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC

***

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNET - OUTSIDE THE TRINITY TESTING SITE, NEW MEXICO

 _Why am I walking east?_ Peter asked eventually. He could feel that his body was beginning to fall apart; you could only regenerate from sunburn so often before you started to wear out. 

_Wind's moving west_ , Claude replied. _Fallout's headed west. Difference between ten miles and a hundred._

 _Ten miles?_ Peter asked, disconsolate. 

_You're not goin' the whole way. Help's comin'._

_I swear to god, Claude, if you walk into a radioactive bomb site and die of cancer --_

_No fear, mate. I'm sendin' family._

Peter was about to ask what the hell that meant when he saw a figure on the horizon, dimly. Slight and small, running towards him across the hardpacked sand. 

"Oh god," he said aloud. "Claire. CLAIRE!"

He nearly collapsed by the time she reached him, but she caught him, one shoulder under his arm. He felt her other arm around him sideways, holding tight. 

"Oh Jesus," he breathed, burying his face in her hair. "Oh Jesus, Claire, Jesus Christ -- "

"I'm here," she said. "Came to help you get back."

"How'd you get here?" he asked, as she offered him a bottle of water, making him drink it in sips. 

"Claude brought me."

"Son of a _bitch_ , Claire. I mean, Jesus," Peter waved an arm at the distant crater. "But we saved New York, right?"

"Yeah," she said, wrapping something around his shoulders. It was heavy, and didn't smell terrific, but it was shade from the sun and, just barely, preserved his decency. 

Claude's jacket. 

"I've been running," she said. "You're a little less than halfway. But once we get another mile or two, dad'll be here, he can come get you."

"Nathan?"

"Yeah. Claude told him to fly his ass to Socorro," Claire replied with a grin. 

"Sounds like Claude."

They limped along, Peter leaning heavily on Claire, pulling the hood of Claude's jacket over his head when his ears started to sunburn and wouldn't heal. Claire had another bottle of water, but it didn't help much; if he didn't get to a hospital soon he was going to pass out, and then he was probably going to die.

"Hey look," Claire said, and tilted his chin up with one hand. For a second all Peter saw was the afternoon sky, darkening to evening; then he noticed a little tiny bit of the sky was moving. Dropping like a rock, in fact. 

When Nathan landed he left a forty-foot skid mark, and he didn't spend much time talking. Peter half-fell against him, numb and exhausted, and laughing because Nathan was still in a suit and tie, Jesus, how funny could you get?

"Keep going," he heard Nathan say, and for a horrifying moment he thought Nathan meant him.

"Nice stroll in the country," Claire answered, and Peter understood -- Nathan was taking him away, and leaving Claire to walk out. Peter clung to Nathan's neck, his whole world reduced to the pattern of his brother's tie. 

"Hold tight, Pete," Nathan said. "Just a short hop. Then you can go home, okay?"

Peter nodded and tightened his grip. 

Flying was a little different when you weren't actually flying. It was a lot more precarious. Especially landings, which apparently Nathan had yet to master. They overshot Claude, standing in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the safety zone for the blast, by about ten feet. 

"Thank Christ you're not a pilot," he heard Claude say to Nathan.

"I'm working on it," Nathan answered. "Hey, Peter. You can let go now."

Peter staggered backwards, into Claude. 

"Take him home. I'm going back for Claire."

"Mind yourself. Tisn't that safe."

Peter began to slip away then, because Claude was here and Nathan was nearby and Claire would be safe. It seemed terribly important that the people who had relayed him, one to the next, caring for _him_ , should be safe. 

He felt Claude lift him, physically pick him up, arms under knees and shoulders. He tried to hold on, because it wasn't fair to make Claude do all the work, but his arms wouldn't move. 

He was unconscious before Claude closed his eyes, said a prayer, and teleported.

***

MOHINDER SURESH, CLAUDE RAINS, AND PETER PETRELLI - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC

"Sunbathin'," the man said succinctly. "In the nude, reckon."

Mohinder, who was waiting his turn for an MRI to find out just what was wrong with him, had given up on trying to do anything other than listen. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to a very skeptical doctor ask an Englishman a lot of questions about the patient in the bed next to him. 

"Where precisely did you find him?" the doctor asked.

"Backyard."

"His backyard? Your," the doctor coughed, "Joint backyard?"

"What, you think he's...? Nah! His backyard. I'm 'is neighbor. What I reckon is, he went to have a beer, sun got the better of 'im."

"This is a very severe sunburn, Mr. Rains. And he is very dehydrated. Do you know if he abuses drugs of any kind?"

"Nope, doubt it. Listen, these kids," the man said dismissively. "They're all nuts, aren't they? Don't take care of their health at all. So," he added, and Mohinder heard the worried uncertainty even if the doctor didn't, "He'll be all right, won't 'e?"

"A few days' rest, a lot of fluids, and some aloe, and he should be well on his way," the doctor replied. "The, er. The scar. Is that old?"

"Dunno. Never paid much attention to the kid myself."

"Very well. I assume you know how to contact his family?"

"I'll take care of it."

Mohinder heard the doctor leave, and the flip of a cellular telephone being opened. 

"Put Jack Baker on the phone." A pause. "They back yet? They're on their way, then. Yes. Yes. Grace Hospital. Well, I would assume you could, yes. No, they say it'll be fine. Faster than they know, once he gets back on his feet. No, false name. Got a pen?"

He heard the man hesitate, then speak once more. "Simon Porter."

***

CLAUDE AND ALEXANDER - ISLINGTON BOROUGH POLICE HEADQUARTERS - LONDON  
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

The small interrogation room seemed empty, of course, but Alexander knew better. 

He had been following the boy for a few days, and had yet to see him visibly. When the London police arrested a boy who disappeared and then reappeared in his cell, Alexander's police contacts threw up flags, and he was summoned. They'd had enough presence of mind to sling the kid in a room and lock the door until he arrived, but beyond that he was dealing with a lot of scared coppers and a kid who was probably terrified out of his mind. 

He'd sent the cops away; one of his own people was manning the closed-circuit television and two more stood outside the door in case the kid tried to bolt. He was probably waiting next to the door for his chance to escape, so when Alexander walked into the room he moved fast, slamming it shut before anything could concievably get out. 

"Good afternoon," he said, into the silent, seemingly-empty room. "The door is locked, so you may as well not bother. I know you're here, and I've come to help you."

Dead silence. He had clearly learned to keep his breathing quiet as well as his footsteps. Alexander sighed.

"I do wish you'd at least talk to me. I know you're listening. You can stay invisible if you wish."

There was a slight rustling noise. He had the boy's attention.

"I'm here from a special agency, an international agency very interested in young men like yourself."

Still no answer.

"I understand you think nobody can comprehend what has happened to you," he continued. "Perhaps you think that if people knew, they'd imprison you, try to see what makes you tick. But I don't believe you understand that right now you are in fact imprisoned by your fears and by your ignorance. You don't know why your body has betrayed you, or comprehend that a wonderful gift has been placed in your hands. I am here to free you from all that."

A body, huddled in one corner, flickered into visibility. Looking at him without heat-sensing goggles for the first time, several things became evident. 

The first was that he'd underestimated the boy's potential strength -- even with his legs pulled up against his chest, Alexander could see more clearly the breadth of his shoulders, the outline of muscle under his cheap shirt. The second was that he was slightly older than the police had estimated when they brought him in, probably in his early twenties. 

"Thank you," he said to the young man, who stared at him through a tangle of curly hair. "By the by, they tell me you haven't eaten."

He placed a packet of food on the table between them. The man eyed it nervously.

"It's just food," Alexander said. "You're already in jail; why would I want to drug you?"

The smell began to fill the room, proving too much for him; he darted forward and took it, ripping the paper open and ravenously devouring the lukewarm meat pasty inside.

"You see?" Alexander asked. "Just a pasty."

"Whatchoo want wi' me?" the man asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"I want to make you an offer. For your own good and benefit."

"B'lieve that when I see it," he snorted.

"Don't you want to get out of here? You'll do time for that assault."

"Fucker had it comin'."

"Couldn't disappear in time, eh?"

The man turned his head, avoiding Alexander's eyes. "Comes 'n goes."

"I want to help you. I can show you how to control it."

"How?"

"I know others like you," Alexander told him, smiling. "Special people. Different people."

"All this, out o' the goodness of your heart, is that it?" the man asked.

Alexander shrugged. "Well, it benefits both of us. I want to learn from you, as well."

"Oh aye yes. Cut into my brain, reckon. Run your medical tests on me."

"I just want to ask some questions."

"Like what?" he challenged, finally meeting Alexander's eyes with an angry, intense stare.

"Well, how about..." Alexander tapped his fingers on his lips. "What's your name?"

The man snorted again. "Claude. Claude Rains."

"Tch! Very droll, but it won't do at all," Alexander said. "I too am a classic film buff. We needn't tell anyone else; in the Company your name is what you say it is. It can be our secret, but I must have your real name."

The young man still looked mistrustful, but when Alexander offered his hand, he shook it.

"Simon," he said sullenly. "Simon Porter."

"Nice to meet you, Simon-called-Claude," Alexander answered. "My name is Alexander Linderman."

***

CLAUDE AND MOHINDER - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC

The room was quiet now, except for the breathing of the boy and his good-samaritan neighbour. 

"I'm sorry to hear about your neighbour," Mohinder tried, just as a conversational gambit.

"He'll live," the man called Claude Rains replied. "Until he gets himself in some other fool situation."

"You said he was young. The young often make mistakes," Mohinder said.

"Speakin' from personal experience?"

"I wish I knew."

"Oh aye? What's your story then?"

"As I said," Mohinder replied with a faint smile, "I wish I knew. Apparently I was mugged. I must have taken quite the blow to the head; they say I have amnesia. I've lost...well, almost three months, I think. Is it really the eighth of November?"

"All day long." There was a rustle as the man stood and walked across the room. "Mugged, eh?"

"So they say. Not a very good deal; they appear to have taken my eyesight as well."

He could feel the man's presence, standing over his bed.

"So it's you," Claude said cryptically. "Well, isn't it a small world."

"Do I...know you?" 

"Not yet. Can't see, eh?"

"Not as such, no."

Claude hummed while he thought. Mohinder didn't think he'd notice if he wasn't depending on his ears to tell him what was going on.

"D'you mind tryin' something for me?" Claude asked.

"Trying what?" Mohinder said, afraid now. He was blind and mostly helpless, and this man -- 

"Nothin' strange," a quiet chuckle. "Just somethin' I picked up. I'm a bit of a scientist, me."

"I'm a geneticist. What's your branch?"

"Esoterica. Your eyes are closed."

"There didn't seem much point in keeping them open."

Claude moved so fast that he didn't have time to react before an arm was thrown across his chest to hold him down and a warm, dry hand pressed hard against the left side of his face. He shouted and of course on instinct his eyes flew open --

The man's hand held his left eyelid shut, but he got his right eye open and the world, suddenly, swam into focus. 

"I can see," he gasped. 

"Magic, innit? Keep your left eye shut."

He did as he was told and the hand was slowly removed. 

"Now open."

The world went fuzzy, as if he'd lost a lense to his glasses. That had happened once as a child; only one lense tended to distort the world, misshape it, make it seem as if there were two of some things and others didn't exist. He closed his eye, and his vision was perfect -- well, not perfect, but he saw sharp outlines and shadows, light and dark, and a scruffy, bearded man leaning over him.

Experimentally, he closed his right eye and opened only his left. Bright colours danced and swam in his vision before he realised what he was seeing; when he concentrated on a peach-coloured blob it focused sharply. It was like looking into a microscope -- an incredibly powerful, incredibly well-illuminated microscope. He was looking at the cells of his benefactor's cheek. 

He closed both eyes resolutely.

"Welcome to the family," said Claude. 

***

NATHAN, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

"Jesus, you're back," Jack said, as Nathan and Claire, windblown but alive, ran into the empty, echoing office which until the day before had been Petrelli Campaign Headquarters. "Come on, we gotta book it -- "

Nathan knocked the boy to the floor with a punch that he hadn't planned on; his rage at Claire's being in danger and Peter's near-death and that arrogant son of a bitch Claude put itself behind a right hook that sent Jack in a neat turn before collapsing to the ground.

"If you ever bring my daughter into danger again -- " he started, as Jack scrabbled upright, hand going to his jaw. 

"Hey! Stop it!" Claire said, tugging on his arm.

"Peter," Jack managed, cradling his injured face. "Grace hospital. The Versa's outside."

"Give me the keys."

"Suck it," Jack told him succinctly. Nathan drew back to punch him again, but Claire caught his arm and clung to it. "I'm a goddamn Finder, you'll never get through rush-hour traffic without me. I drive."

Nathan used the hand Claire wasn't clinging onto to gather up a handful of Jack's shirt.

"Take us there. Now," he said. 

Nathan didn't remember the car ride, except for a distant mention of Hiro and Ando having been sent ahead. When they reached the hospital he made for the nearest official-looking desk, but Jack actually physically grabbed him and pulled him away.

"He's under another name," he said. "I'll find him."

Jack led them down a corridor, past a nurse who didn't even look up from her crossword, up two flights of stairs, and down another hall, moving as if he'd lived all his life in Grace Hospital. Nathan caught sight of Claude before the other two and he started to run. Claude saw him coming and tilted his head at a nearby door.

"He's all right," he said, stopping Nathan on the threshold. "Keep quiet."

Nathan glared at him and opened the door. Inside, Peter was --

This sight was too familiar. Peter, lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and tubes, unconscious. Dark rings on pale skin under his eyes, hospital-issue pyjamas under the hospital-issue blankets. And a new scar for Peter, who was supposed to heal from anything. Perhaps in some way he had -- it was a true scar, the skin already old, not the fresh pink of a recent wound or the bloody mess it must have once been. 

He heard Jack and Claire shove into the doorway behind him. Claire pushed past his hip and went to Peter's bedside. 

"Dehydration and sunburn," Claude said, over his shoulder. "Bit of liquid refreshment, he'll be right as rain."

Even Peter's great teacher Claude, Nathan noticed, couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice. 

"To you an' me an' the hospital, his name's Simon Porter."

Nathan moved forward, stumbling into the chair that was next to Peter's bed, seating himself in it and feeling very old, suddenly. 

"Hey Pete," he said softly. "Nice work."

***

JACK AND CLAIRE - GRACE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM 

They left Nathan sitting with Peter, not very aware of the rest of the world, watched over by Claude. Actually, they were sent away by Claude, who said he had other things to discuss with Nathan, and that Jack ought to have that shiner on his jaw looked at. 

Down in the ER, the nurse found an ice pack for him, which was all he really wanted. The ER admissions forms sat blank on the chair next to his, Claire on his other side, while he iced his sore and aching jaw. 

"Sorry about the punching and everything," Claire said. Jack smiled, then winced.

"Hey, don't do the crime if you can't do the time, right?" he managed. 

"I don't think he usually punches people," Claire said. "I guess I don't know. I should ask Peter."

"He's pretty good at it." Jack shifted the ice against his jaw, finding a colder spot. 

"Listen, Jack...about the bomb shelter today..." she frowned as he turned his head, studying her intently. Jack acted like an idiot a lot of the time, but that didn't mean he was one. "I mean...I'm not going to _lie_ , it was a nice kiss."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. But..."

"Still not interested?" he asked, looking a little crestfallen. She couldn't blame him, really. It had been way more than nice. It had been hot, and there had been tongues involved, and not just his tongue either. 

"Mixed message, I know."

"You can give me a mixed message anytime you like, schweeteart," Jack said, leering a little. She punched him in the shoulder. "Ow! You Petrellis are all alike."

She laughed, but then she realised he'd called her a Petrelli, which was...very strange.

"Thinkin' bout your dad?" he asked. "Texas-dad, I mean."

"I swore I saw him today. Do you think he might really be in New York?" 

"Anything's possible. Om. Um, and if he is..." He drew his eyebrows together, taking the icepack off his face. "Hey, listen, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of creep. I came here to find you. Till I hear otherwise, I'm staying here to help you. No strings attached. You want me to try and find your dad?"

Claire squeezed his hand tightly. 

"Maybe. If you want," she said.

"I do want! I mean. To help you find him. I could go looking for him, if you're still under house arrest."

"It might not have been him at all."

"Or it might have. When I was on the road I could find my family from two thousand miles away. It's harder here, there's a lot of stuff to find, but even if all I do is find out what he's up to in Texas, wouldn't that be worth it?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. "Yeah. If you can."

"Course I can. Next to getting punched by your bio-dad, it's a cinch."


	18. Chapter 18

PETER PETRELLI - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC

Peter knows, somehow, that he is in two places at once. He's lying on a hospital bed, the IV needle a dull pain in his arm, the rest of his body dry and crackling with dehydration. Dimly, there are voices; his brother is most audible, but he knows that Claude is there too, at least. 

At the same time, he is standing in the middle of a chilly corridor, lined with paintings on both sides, tacked to the wall in an odd, haphazard fashion. Voices echo back to him from a doorway at the end; Claude's is one of them. Claude is unsatisfied with something (when is he not?) and there is another voice, a very young voice, answering him rebelliously.

Peter peers through the doorway into an open, airy room lit by high windows, filled with electronic odds and ends. A young boy, twelve or thirteen at most, has his arms crossed rebelliously over his chest.

"Take a break," he hears himself say. "Get a sandwich or something, kid."

"Not until he gets this," Claude replies -- except the man who looks up at him isn't Claude, or doesn't look like him anyway. Younger, somehow -- maybe not younger, maybe happier. Cleaner, too, and wearing a suit with an open-throated shirt, no tie. 

"Come on, lay off him," Peter says. His own voice sounds strange to him. "I want you for an hour or two."

"Fine. We'll get nothing done this way anyway," Claude, not-quite-Claude, answers him. "I've got my eye on you, Sanders."

The corridor seems to lengthen and undulate as Claude and Peter walk together; perhaps it's just the strange way the paintings are hung. 

"It's about the genetics lab," Peter says. 

"You took me off teaching to talk to me about Suresh?"

"I'm a little worried about him. He's working too hard. He keeps saying he's close to decoding it, but he's been sleeping here the last two nights. I'm not concerned about speed, I want good solid repeatable results."

"Well, what d'you want me to do about it?"

"Talk to him."

"For the love a' fuckin' God, Peter."

"You're better at it than you say you are. Listen, I know it's an obsessive job by nature, but you asked me to tell you this kind of thing. So I'm telling you."

Claude doesn't let his barriers down very often, and Peter's never been able to touch his mind without his permission. Still, there is a kinship between the only two Empaths still living, the only two who've been discovered at any rate. Peter doesn't need the often-too-intimate telepathic link to know what Claude is thinking. He's already turning the situation over in his head. 

They emerge from the corridor into a roasting, sunlit gravel lot outside the building. It must be summer, whenever, wherever this is. In the lot, a young man is welding something together.

Except he's not using a welding torch. He's using his finger. 

"I hate summer," Claude observes, apropos of nothing. "And I hate having to beat sense into people old enough to know better."

Dr. Suresh is not going to have an easy few days of it, when Claude takes him in hand. But then again, nothing good ever comes easy.

Peter can feel heavy weights on his mind. Money, of course, and social services has been sniffing around about the "homeschooling" Micah and the other kids are getting. Jessica's been seen in Georgia again, and Peter sleeps uneasily when he thinks about Jessica too much. Nathan's sons are getting big and always getting into trouble. Claire's not settling in well, so he talks to her pretty much nightly on the phone. Claude...requires a lot of management. Mohinder's sleeping in the lab. Jack goes Finding whenever the mood strikes, disappearing for days at a time, and he never leaves his goddamn phone on. Claude swears he's going to put a tracking collar on the kid.

Peter knows, though, that this is what he was aching for when he spent all that time training to heal people. This is what he wanted when he leapt off that building and Nathan caught him. This is changing the world, not in big leaps, not in single steps, but at a steady run. 

This could be his future. It isn't yet, just an echo of a dream in the mind of a man lying in a hospital bed. 

But it could be. 

"Well, no rest for the wicked," Claude says, and the dream dissolves into oblivion. 

***

HIRO AND ANDO - GRACE HOSPITAL CAFETERIA - NYC

Once Nathan and Jack arrived, Hiro and Ando faded gently into the background; clearly bodyguards weren't needed, and the popcorn Jack had made seemed like a long time ago. Ando, who knew Hiro's limits possibly better than Hiro did, took him to the cafeteria and bought them both the most Japanese food he could find, little trays of disgusting cheap sushi. 

"Hiro," he said. "Hiro-kun."

"Mm?" Hiro asked, looking up from a quiet contemplation of his sushi. 

"You did it. You saved New York."

"Peter Petrelli saved New York."

"You saved Peter Petrelli. No more kaboom," Ando told him. Hiro picked at one of the limp pink prawns. "Aren't you happy?"

"I'm tired," Hiro said. 

"Bakeru's here. That means the Versa must be. I could drive us back to the hotel."

Hiro shook his head. 

"No more explosion," he said dully. "We saved New York. But..."

Ando raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"What do we do now?"

***

NATHAN, CLAUDE, AND MOHINDER - GRACE HOSPITAL INTENSIVE CARE

Nathan didn't know how much time passed between arriving and when Claude touched his arm lightly, trying to get his attention. He was frustrated with Peter and with his own inability to help, and when that happened Nathan tended to get very quiet and very thoughtful. 

"Done starin' pensively at him?" Claude asked.

"Nobody asked you to be here," Nathan replied.

"Actually, he did," Claude said, indicating the sleeping man on the bed. "In a universal sort of way. He's not going to wake up any faster for you starin' at him."

"He's my brother. He saved my life today. All our lives."

"And he's got a bloody sunburn, he'll be fine soon enough. There's someone you need to meet."

"It can wait."

"No, he can't. Suresh is here."

The curtain around Peter's bed rattled, and a man stepped through. He was pulling an IV cart after him, dressed in a hospital gown, and wore an eyepatch strapped over his left eye. Nathan looked up.

"I'm told I know you," Mohinder Suresh said, looking down at him curiously. "I'm sorry, I've lost a good chunk of the last three months. Are we friends?"

Nathan looked from Mohinder to Claude.

"Sort of," he said. "It's a very...complicated situation."

"The nurses said they've been trying to reach someone by the name of Petrelli, but his phone is switched off."

"Incinerated's more like it," Claude muttered. 

"He's the one who put you here," Nathan said, nodding his head at Peter.

"This is all pretty fascinating," Mohinder said earnestly. "My father will want to hear all about it. Did you know, I have microscopic vision in my left eye? It almost makes up for being functionally blind without the eyepatch. This is what I've been studying for ages. My father too. Continuing evolution. Claude says you can fly."

Nathan pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

"Mohinder," he said gently. "Your father is dead."

There was a long silence.

"What?" Mohinder asked.

"He's been dead for a few months. I'm sorry."

Mohinder looked at Claude.

"Don't ask me, I didn't know," Claude replied. Mohinder looked around, momentarily bereft. Nathan stood and offered him his chair.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I don't know. Peter might," Nathan said. "I know where you live. I'll make sure someone takes you there when you're ready to leave."

He touched Peter's shoulder, frowned, and shook his head. "I have to find my daughter. God knows what that stupid kid's gotten her into now." 

He left Claude still standing guard over Peter, Mohinder sitting dazed and grieving in the chair. Imagine having to live three months of your life over again. Losing Dad a second time. 

And doing it alone.

***

MATT, BENNET, AND ISAAC - THE WAREHOUSE

"What's wrong with him?" Isaac asked. He was wiping paint off his fingers, though his new painting didn't look like much of anything. Just a streak with a few lines through it.

Matt glanced at Bennet, who was sitting on one of the low benches in the warehouse, staring down at his hands. 

"He found his daughter," he said. "Then she got lost again."

"You ever think maybe she doesn't want to be found?"

Matt knew he was taking out some odd, sympathetic anger on Isaac, but as he towered over the painter he didn't really care.

"You tell him that and I'll shoot you myself," he growled. Isaac held up his hands, grinning.

"I'm just the junkie, remember?" he said. 

"Parkman," Bennet called. Matt gave Isaac a warning look, and crossed the floor.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"We have business to take care of. Come on."

"Hey, what about my fix?" Isaac called, as Matt obediently followed Bennet out the door.

"Detox for a few hours. Maybe it'll motivate you," Bennet called.

Matt was beginning to seriously worry. 

***

JACK BAKER - IN UR BASE CAFE

Jack knew that this was the cheapest internet cafe in Manhattan. It was close to the hostel and the coffee was good, which was a deep consideration at eight in the morning. If he was going to find Claire's dad he'd get an early start on it.

It was just, he thought perhaps the owners were a little too zealous about the whole geek gestalt thing. Someone Set Us Up The Brownies were not, he felt, in good taste. Cyberpunkin Muffins were _right out._

He sipped his coffee ("Our Beans Is Pastede On Yay") and sat at one of the public-use computers, waiting for GoogleMaps to load. When it did, he searched for the In Ur Base Cafe, and found where he himself was sitting. Man, computers were weird. Here he was, sitting somewhere, looking at a digital map of where he was. That kind of stuff could mess you up if you thought about it for too long.

Carefully, he traced his own movements over the past few days, then back further, all the way along the route he'd taken from Ojai. There was his street. He should call Mom and Dad. 

He shook his head. This was only an experiment; maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't. 

He scrolled back to New York, zooming out just enough so that he could see Manhattan and most of the surrounding area. He made a circle with his fingers and held it up to the screen. That was how much of New York would be gone if Peter hadn't taken Sylar into the desert yesterday. Deserts were mystical places; you went in and came out changed. Two or three major religions came from the desert. 

Jack shook his head again. He dropped his right hand and turned his left hand up, palm hovering over the screen. His tattoo itched. 

He didn't know what Claire's dad looked like, and they weren't blood related anyway, but Claire was who she was because of the people who raised her, just like he was. So he thought about who Claire was, and what kind of man her father had to be.

He concentrated hard, first staring at the map between his fingers and then closing his eyes.

_Find him. Find him._

Nothing. Not even a tug. He bit his lower lip and doubled his efforts.

_Saint Anthony, patron of lost things, Altjira god of the Dream Time, Ganesh who eases the path, Hermes the Messenger, help your servant --_

His tattoo itched and burned, and he felt that if he looked it would be glowing neon, though probably that was just the vivid over-imagination of someone raised on sci-fi television. 

_Darwin, Watson, Crick, Venter, de Jong, Suresh, help your servant --_

There was an enormously loud noise, and Jack's eyes flew open as he jerked backwards. The screen made a bzzt! sound and went blank right as the case on the CPU exploded outwards. It just sort of leapt up and crackled, and smoke emerged from the USB ports.

Okay, until they invented gods for computers, maybe GoogleMaps wasn't the way to go about this. 

***

CLAUDE RAINS AND PETER PETRELLI - GRACE HOSPITAL INTENSIVE CARE

Peter woke quietly this time, not screaming or scared as he was accustomed to when he found himself in a hospital. His entire body itched, it felt like, but he didn't have the energy to scratch; he just opened his eyes and breathed in the smell of antiseptic and latex. 

His mind reeled slowly backwards, over the last things he recalled before he passed out. Gabriel dying in the crater he'd created, Claude summoning him away from the eerie glass-lined hole in the earth. Claire and Nathan, carrying him to safety. Claude's hood over his head. Then...nothing. 

He felt an odd sensation, a dream playing up against his consciousness -- someone was dreaming about an underground hospital, padding barefoot past observation rooms where Peter's own family spoke together or drank from little cups of water. Claire and Mom played Uno together in one of them, but in the one right next to it Claire was showing Mr. Bennet a stuffed bear. In a third, Nathan floated as if he were held up by straps, head tilted back, arms loosely outstretched. It was strange to see something in his head that wasn't his. 

There was an empty chair next to his bed, or what looked like an empty chair, but Peter knew now where the dreams were coming from. He poked at the air about six inches above two odd dents in the blankets on the hospital bed -- his hand was an alarming shade of red, peeling and cracking -- and there was a snort as the invisible man woke up. 

"Mfrrgh?" Claude said, reappearing and pulling his legs down from where they were propped on the blankets. "You 'wake?"

"Hi," Peter said. "You look like death warmed over."

"You should talk," Claude answered, sitting up and tilting his head to one side. His neck cracked alarmingly. "Wha' time isst?"

"I dunno."

Claude twisted his body around to look at a clock on one of the machines nearby. "Half-seven."

"Half what?"

"Listen, I don't do "people" before eight in the morning," Claude grumbled. 

"How long have I been here?"

Claude pushed himself out of the chair and stretched, wincing. "Since yesterday."

"You slept in the chair?"

"Someone had to stay. Can't kick the invisible man out." Claude saw his look and frowned. "Don't go gettin' ideas about undyin' devotion. I've slept in worse places."

"You came for me. In the desert. I remember. You found me."

Claude shrugged and turned away, fiddling with one of the machines. "You called for help."

"Not in the desert."

"Doesn't matter. 'Sides, I just stood there like a useless wanker. Claire did all the work. How's your head?"

"Fine...I itch."

"Well, you know how to solve that."

Peter blinked. "I do?"

Claude gave him the most scornful look Peter had encountered since...well, to be fair, since the last time Claude threw him down the stairs.

"Oh," Peter said, and shut his eyes. He pictured Claire, remembered her walking with him over the sand, and felt the itch fade away. When he looked at his hand, it was its usual colour again. Relief washed over him like cold water. 

"Now, do somethin' for me," Claude said, turning back to him. He put a hand on Peter's head, not at all affectionately, fingers curling over the top, thumb pressed tightly against his temple. 

"Think of Sylar."

Peter, blindly obedient, thought of the man he'd left dying, the brilliant shockwave explosion, the chilling cruelty in his eyes when he'd held Peter against the wall, the pain and fear in them when Peter crashed into him in the middle of a New York street. 

"Not Sylar," he said. "Gabriel. That was his name. Gabriel Grey."

"Go on."

Gabriel. Gabriel who wanted so badly to be unique, like Peter did, Gabriel who was devoured by guilt and fear, Gabriel whose hands were so deft, whose life was measured out in cogs and parts, incomplete...

Peter understood what Claude wanted. He wanted to see Peter call up that power, the power that had killed Sylar and Gabriel together. By all rights he should be able to; he'd been at the heart of the inferno, he'd been part of the inferno. But when he opened his eyes, there was no bright atomic fire burning on his skin. 

Claude was watching him. Peter knew that if there was the slightest trace of that power, Claude would snap his neck. It wouldn't kill him, but it would definitely distract him. 

"It's gone," he said. Claude's hand didn't move. "It burned away."

"Power doesn't just disappear."

"I could feel it. I can feel it. Here," Peter said, clenching his arm. Why his arm, he didn't know; he had DNA everywhere. "It's been blocked off. Didn't Mohinder say..."

"What did Mohinder say?"

"He said my DNA rewrites itself. Our DNA," Peter amended, daring Claude to disagree. "There's...it's like a piece of bone, stuck into that place. It can't rewrite. Blue screen of death," he added, laughing. "When I try it shuts down."

Claude took his hand away. As it moved, Peter felt the barest hint of a caress, his fingers smoothing down a lock of hair, thumb stroking the skin of his forehead. 

_So that's how it is,_ he thought to himself. _All those demands, all that discipline, and that's the return. But he's proud of me. Finally. And because of that I'll take two seconds of contact and be content._

And he was. He didn't know if Claude had heard him think it or not and frankly didn't care. Claude was proud of him.

"That's all right then. Hospital's a bit suspicious of you; I'd like to get you out before they find you're all better. Reckon you can walk?"

Peter pushed himself up on his elbows, then sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, cautiously, and slid forward. His feet touched the floor solidly enough. He didn't stagger when he put his weight on them. The IV tube tugged on his arm, and he pulled it free carefully. It felt good to move.

"Where's Nathan?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot experimentally. "Claire's okay, isn't she?"

"Right as rain. Dunno where your brother got to; he knew I was stayin'."

"Where are we going?"

"Where would you like?"

Peter thought about it. With Gabriel dead, he could probably go back to his apartment. Or he could go to Nathan's house, his mom was probably there. Or back to the safe-house, that'd be the first place people would look when they found out he was gone. 

"I'm starving," he said. 

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE

***

PETER AND CLAUDE - LOWER MANHATTAN

They stole a shirt from the hospital gift shop and a pair of scrub pants from the nearby locker room. Shoes were harder to come by when a ravenous Empath was breathing down your neck, but Claude was past master of the art of scrounge. Before long they were, if not presentable, then at least comically decent. 

There was a restaurant near the hospital -- one of those horrible family-themed places with movie memorabilia on the walls. Claude wanted to find somewhere else, but it was the first place they passed. 

Peter ate three poached eggs, five waffles, a double-order of bacon, two sausage links, and gulped two cups of horrible coffee. Claude watched in frank amazement. 

"You going to finish that?" Peter asked, looking hungrily at the half-finished french toast on Claude's plate. It was the closest that Americans came to fried bread, which was odd considering what else Americans would fry and eat. Claude shoved the plate across and Peter, slowing down now, took the time to cut the food into pieces before eating.

"Somethin' you want to be aware of," Claude said, as Peter chewed. "You been marked, mate."

"Hmm?" Peter asked.

"There's a scar. Hospital asked about it, I put 'em off."

"Not..." Peter paused, hand going to his neck.

"No," Claude answered. _And not while I'm alive,_ he added mentally, to himself. "On your face."

Peter raised his hand to his cheek, cautiously. Claude touched his own jaw, drawing a line from it up to his ear. Peter followed the movement, his hand touching the raised, dark-brown skin.

"How big is it?" he asked.

"Take a look, when you can. Dunno what caused it. Maybe the blast."

"I remember..." Peter's eyes clouded. "My face felt funny when I woke up."

"Looks a bit funny too."

"Nice," Peter replied, frowning.

"Get used to the stares."

"I should call Nathan, tell him I'm okay." Peter looked down at the empty plates in front of him. Claude rolled his eyes and found a few wadded bills in his pocket, tossing them down carelessly. They left without waiting for the check. 

Claude lifted a mobile out of a woman's purse and passed it to Peter, who grimaced at the theft but dialed Nathan's number. 

"Hey, it's Pete....Sure. Claude fed me breakfast. Where are you?" A pause. "Yeah," Peter said, looking vaguely annoyed. "Claire back at the safe house? Mmh. Okay. Meet you at the office." Peter flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Claude, who shoved it carelessly in his pocket. 

"So, now you've saved the city, back to bein' Little Brother?" Claude inquired. 

"Hey, gimme a day here," Peter said. "Besides, there's no rush. You taught me enough to save New York, right?"

Claude stopped suddenly, so suddenly that Peter didn't notice; he kept walking, slipping through the New York crowds like someone used to avoiding people, rather than making people avoid him. 

He'd admitted to Peter that he didn't know if there was a "next step" for Empaths, that their powers had their limits, unlike others. But it was the first time a student had walked away, dismissing him and what he offered so fully and casually. 

Peter stopped and turned around. "What?"

Claude disappeared.

***

JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - THE SAFE HOUSE

Jack was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, head tilted over the back. He watched as Claire walked to the kitchen upside down, poured herself a soda upside down, and walked back, still upside down.

"When I was a kid," he said, "I used to hang over the end of the big chair in our living room and imagine what it would be like to walk on the ceiling."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're weird?" Claire asked. 

"Didn't you do that? I mean, great big ceiling lamps in the middle of the floor, having to step over things to go through doors, being able to reach all the really cool stuff your parents kept on the upper shelves of the bookcases. I used to think, when I grew up, I was gonna get a bunch of ceiling lamps and install them in the floor of my house, like random freaky sculptures. I still might."

"I didn't expect you'd find Dad in a day," she said. 

"Well, the internet was no fucking help, that's for sure." Jack said, annoyed. "I even asked Darwin, man, and Darwin made me blow up a computer. It was a close call getting out of there without having to pay for it."

"Why'd you ask Darwin?"

"He seems like the go-to guy for the evolutionary set. That's what we are, isn't it? Mutations? Like in the X-Men. Your dad would look awesome in a cape."

"You'll give yourself a head rush when you sit up," she said.

"Groovy."

"Seriously, what are you doing?"

Jack sighed. "Dunno. I mean, I could go back to where we were, but that place creeps me out, and the more people around, the harder it is."

"How does it work? For you, I mean."

"I just...know. Sometimes it's an itch. Or like something you see out of the corner of your eye. What about you? Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yeah, but...a lot less, I guess. I mean I know it's there, I can feel something's wrong, but it's all kind of distant." Claire flopped down on the couch next to him. He turned a little to look at her; she was tilting her head over the back too. 

"The world's different for us," she said.

"Every kid thinks that."

"It is, though. How many people do you know are being kept in a government lockup by their congressman dad while some kid who found them on a Spirit Walk tries to find their Evil Scientist dad?"

"It's definitely a change in perspective, when you put it like that," Jack said. "Maybe that's what I need. A change in perspective. Worked when I went to the Empire State Building to find you."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. I'm looking at this wrong."

They sat there, staring over the edge of the couch, for several minutes. 

"Maybe you shouldn't ask Darwin," Claire said. 

"Who should I ask? I asked a bunch of people. Well, gods and people."

"Like who?"

"Ganesh, Altjira, Hermes. They make it easier to find things. I even asked Saint Anthony, and I'm not really, you know, all that down with the Catholic Church."

"But they make it easier to find _everything._ So you should like...ask people, or whatever, who already know where things are. Or something. You don't really believe in all those gods, do you?"

"I'm a pantheist," he said, and then paused. Idea. Whoa. 

"Claire?"

"What?"

"If it didn't gross you out, I would totally kiss you again."

"It didn't _gross me out_ ," she said, annoyed. 

"Okay, but you're like a genius or a muse or something." He sat up, then blinked as the world went fuzzy. "Woo! Head rush. Sit up, it's fun."

Claire laughed and sat up more slowly. He waited until she was looking at him and then grinned.

"Who knows everything?" he asked excitedly. "Come on, gods of wisdom. All-seeing eyes."

"Uh, like Sauron?"

"Okay, except not _evil._ "

"Athena, right?" Claire said. "And um, well, you know, God god."

"And Siddhartha! He's enlightened up to here!" Jack continued excitedly. Claire frowned. "What?"

"It's just...I don't know. Do you really need all that? It's all your power. Like you said, it's DNA."

For the first time since he woke up, knowing the world was different, cold fear washed over him. If the visions were his -- if it wasn't destiny, just knowing where to find the right thing at the right time, if he hadn't actually walked in the Dreamtime or any of that...what if the gods weren't telling him anything. What if they were just watching. To see what he did. 

Then he was just an asshole seventeen-year-old stoner with bum DNA, knocking around the world, thinking he was way more important than he was. Maybe Claire wasn't his soulmate, maybe there was no answer to the Spirit Walk because the Spirit Walk was just a name he gave his stupid impulses. 

Man, if he were a god he'd be _pissed_ at him right now. 

"Jack, say something," Claire said, looking worried.

"Moment of existential crisis," Jack managed, trying not to cry. He was a senior in high school, seniors in high school didn't cry. 

"Are you okay? Listen, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to piss you off..."

"It's okay, you didn't, honest," he said. He leaned forward, threading his hands through his hair. It didn't matter. He promised he'd help her find her dad. He still had to answer to his promises or he really was an asshole. What was it Mikey had said? He thought he was alone. But Jack found Mikey. And Claire. So he still had something. 

If he thought about Mikey and that bone-crushing, desperate, frightened hug, he could see him. All the rest dropped away and across a handful of state lines he could _see him_ , sitting in the bleachers, eating lunch, carefully avoiding his rough-housing pals, flirting with a pretty redhead. 

He came back to reality with a snap so jarring his teeth clicked together. Claire looked really scared. 

"Here," he said, offering her his left hand. "Put your hand on my wrist. Like this," he said, holding onto his left arm, palm covering the tattoo. "Close your eyes and think about your dad. Really hard."

Claire grasped his wrist and squeezed her eyes shut. Jack tried hard, _knowing_ you could be a telepath because people _were_ and even if he wasn't, maybe it would work -- 

He opened his eyes and realised he was standing up, somewhere outside, the cold New York wind biting through his jacket. 

"What now?" someone asked, and he turned to see Claire, hugging herself to keep warm. 

"Uh," he said. "Where are we?"

"I thought..." she looked at him. "Your eyes are normal again."

"Are they?" he asked, mystified. "Weren't they before?"

"Jack, we've been riding the subway for like twenty minutes and your eyes were all white and I had to tell people you were blind and mentally dysfunctional! _Not_ to mention you wouldn't talk to me at all."

He turned around, but everywhere he looked, he just saw tall grey buildings. And smelled rank water -- they were near a dock.

"I don't...remember," he said. "I thought we were on your couch."

"Yeah, and then you freaked out and dragged me halfway across New York! You don't remember that?"

"No..."

And then that familiar sensation again, the sensation of Knowing, like knowing where his Mom's car keys were or that the twins were reading comic books when they should be sleeping. He knew.

"Your dad's in that building," he said, pointing to one of a dozen identical warehouses.


	19. Chapter 19

HIRO, ANDO, AND NATHAN - PETRELLI ~~CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS~~ CONGRESSIONAL RAMP-UP OFFICE

Ando wasn't sure what to do.

Hiro was clearly depressed, not that he blamed him. Once you've saved New York from an atomic blast and helped a flying man get elected to public office, it's hard to keep the excitement going. Ando felt that he could use less excitement in his life, actually, but then he wasn't Hiro. He'd been perfectly happy working in a cubicle -- he couldn't go back to that now, of course, not after what he'd seen, but it hadn't been a bad life. 

Hiro hadn't liked the work and had always wanted something more. He'd had it, for a while. The quest. The sword. The bomb. And now what?

They showed up to the office that morning because Ando didn't want Hiro moping in the hotel room but he didn't know what else to do. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, everyone was doing something. They'd seen Nathan and Peter too, Peter with his bizarre scar and total unself-consciousness about it. But Nathan and Peter clearly needed some time to talk, and so he and Hiro ended up helping someone fix a photocopier. 

Ando could get to like New York. He didn't really have any family back home in Japan, and he felt marginally useful here, at least. Maybe Nathan would hire him as a translator. Not without Hiro, of course. 

"When you are in the future," he said to Hiro, sitting at the conference table and still moping, "you should remember this and come back and say something to yourself. Something exciting."

"Doesn't work that way," Hiro replied morosely. 

"We could go raid the comic book stores."

"You can if you want."

"Someone must need saving somewhere," Ando said desperately. Hiro shrugged. He was close to suggesting they try to talk to Mr. Isaac again, but they hadn't exactly had a good reception last time. 

Over Hiro's shoulder, he saw Nathan lean out of his office and tilt his head. Ando blinked. Nathan gestured for him to come over, then put a finger to his lips. 

"Well, stay here and I'll see if I can find something interesting to do," he said casually. Hiro nodded. 

" _Hey,_ " Nathan said, when Ando was in his office and the door was closed. " _What's up with Hiro? Shouldn't you two be out celebrating?_ "

" _He is unhappy_ ," Ando replied. 

" _Yeah, I see that. You know why?_ "

" _Yes. His quest is over. He feels useless._ "

" _He helped save New York!_ "

Ando shrugged. " _He says, what now?_ "

Nathan blinked at him. " _What_ now? _There's a whole world out there. Places to see, time to stop, people to save or whatever._ "

" _But no quest._ "

Nathan peered out the blinds at Hiro, slumped unhappily in his chair. 

" _I do not know what to do,_ " Ando told him. " _Without purpose, Hiro is miserable._ "

" _Aren't we all,_ " Nathan murmured.

***

CLAIRE, BENNET, PARKMAN, AND CLAUDE - THE WAREHOUSE

Bennet had spent the day, and most of the evening before, starting to arrange the new company. If he thought about Claire he felt sick and angry; Claire in the hands of Baker, possibly in the hands of Nakamura. She hadn't looked like she was a prisoner, but the fear was still there. And even if she wasn't, how could that kid possibly keep her safe? 

Parkman kept telling him to eat the damn hamburger he'd brought back, but Bennet wasn't hungry. He was sketching out a business model for the company. Before he'd been recruited, he had actually been pretty good at this stuff. He knew how to manage people and goods. And if he was managing he wasn't thinking so much. 

He looked up when he heard footsteps, expecting that it would be Isaac, prowling around as he usually did. His first order of business was going to be to detox Isaac again, forcibly if necessary. If he kept on going the way he had, he'd be dead inside of a month.

Instead, it was a slight, slim figure, half in shadow. He took the safety off the gun sitting on the table, but didn't pick it up. It might be anyone. A squatter, a junkie, even a spy or an emissary from Linderman -- 

Then she stepped into the light, a pool of fluorescent light that turned her blonde hair deep orange-gold. 

"Claire," he breathed. 

"Daddy?" she asked. 

He didn't remember even moving, but suddenly he was standing in the light, holding her, her face pressed against his shirt. She was safe, she was real, she was touchable, holding him so tight it hurt and -- no, that was him trembling, not her. 

The world narrowed down to a single sensation -- his child in his arms. 

"It's okay," he heard himself say. "Dad's here now."

"Bennet," Parkman said warily, from some distance off.

"Matt, I want you to meet my -- " he swung around, beaming, wanting to introduce his daughter, to show someone else that she was really there. Instead he came face to face with the business end of his own pistol. 

Standing in front of him was a man out of his nightmares. 

"Give me a reason," Claude Rains said. 

***

THE HAITIAN, AMY MARTIN, AND ANGELA PETRELLI - NYC

"As abilities go, that is something of a limited asset, my dear," Mrs. Petrelli said. Amy glanced at her newfound friend, who apparently didn't have a name, and then back at the dark, severe-looking woman in front of her.

"Well, it's...fun," she said. "And it makes people laugh."

She hadn't really asked to be picked up at the airport in a big black sedan and driven to some random mansion in the middle of nowhere, but it had all sort of...happened. And she didn't have classes the next day, so it wasn't like she had anywhere to be. But Mrs. Petrelli was a little judgemental, and reminded Amy uncomfortably of her mother.

"When did you find you had this particular talent?" Mrs. Petrelli asked. 

"High school, I think," Amy said. It was hard to remember, to be honest. "I started doing fortunetelling because my friends thought it was fun, and that turned into card tricks, but I didn't really have to do anything special. You know that trick where you ask someone to pick a card, any card?"

"I'm familiar with it."

"Well, I just know what the card is. And then it turned out I could pull things out of peoples' ears."

"I don't suppose you've tried sawing someone in half."

"No," Amy admitted. "But if I have an audience I can levitate them."

Mrs. Petrelli looked pensively at her, then walked to a desk nearby and wrote something on a piece of paper. She folded it, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Amy.

"There's a question in the envelope," she said. "Can the...I'm sorry, what did you say your stage name was?"

"The Mysterious Morgana."

Mrs. Petrelli sighed. Well, not everyone was cut out for show business. 

"Can the Mysterious Morgana answer the question?" she asked. Amy pressed the envelope to her forehead and closed her eyes. 

"A warehouse at Watts and Washington," she said. It only worked if you fluttered your eyelids a little, even though she felt like an idiot doing it.

Mrs. Petrelli raised her eyebrows. Amy wondered if she'd done something wrong.

"My friend will take you home," she said. "I think you've just provided me with some excellent information, Amy. I look forward to meeting you again."

In the car, Amy opened the envelope. The question inside read, _Where is my granddaughter at this moment?_

***

BENNET, CLAUDE, CLAIRE, MATT, AND JACK - THE WAREHOUSE

"Claude," Bennet said, more concerned about Claire than his own chances of surviving this. Forgetting what she was, what she could do, he moved so that he stood in front of her. "You can shoot me but you're not taking her away from me."

"Hey, hey, nobody's gonna shoot anyone, are they?" Matt asked. "There's kids here. Let's all just stop and take a moment."

Bennet looked to his left. There was another figure there -- Jack Baker, standing off to one side with a peculiar, confused look on his face. 

"Claude, put the gun down," Claire said, sidestepping away from him. 

"Claire, get behind me," Bennet ordered.

"It's okay," she said. "He won't hurt me. He can't, anyway."

"Come on, man," Parkman added. "You really gonna shoot a man in front of his kid?"

"No, just slightly to the left of her," Claude answered. 

"You followed us," Baker said. 

"Too right I did," Claude answered. "I'm not lettin' him put you both away."

"Claude, I told you, he hid me," Claire said. 

"And _he_ told me we were friends," Claude replied. Bennet edged towards the gun, and Claude smiled.

" **Stop** ," he said. 

Bennet felt himself freeze without meaning to. He'd -- he'd just been Spoken to. 

By Claude.

"Nice trick, eh?" Claude continued. "Now, this can all end pretty and nice and nobody's going to get hurt, but we need to get a few things straight first. So I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the bloody truth, Bennet."

"What do you want to know?" Bennet asked, honestly perplexed.

"Why're you here?"

"To find my daughter."

"Why?"

"Because she's my _daughter_ ," Bennet said desperately. 

"He's a Telepath," Matt said, startled. "I can hear him reading your mind."

Claude narrowed his eyes. "And the Company?"

Bennet darted his eyes desperately to Claire. _Don't make me confess in front of my child, Claude._

Slowly, Claude eased the pistol back and flicked the safety on. Matt charged forward, like a moron, and Claude raised his other hand, shoving him back without touching him. He set the pistol on the table.

"Um," Baker said. Everyone looked at him. He glanced around, as if he wasn't expecting all the attention. "So. Uh. Hi, Mr. Bennet. Nice to meet you."

Claude snorted. 

"The kid's harmless," he said. "He's not with Yamagoto. Nakamura the younger, maybe."

Bennet blinked. "Nakamura's kid? He's mixed up in this?"

"You're not up on the times," Claude continued. 

"Obviously not, and at the moment I could give a damn," Bennet said, turning to Claire. He brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said quietly. "Really."

"I see you met Claude."

"He -- " Claire glanced at Claude, who was standing with his arms crossed, waiting patiently. "He's been helping me. And others. Like Jack."

Bennet looked up. "Thank you," he said, to the man who had been about to shoot him. Claude grunted. 

"Dad, I missed you -- "

Bennet hugged her again, kissed the top of her head. "I missed you too. I was terrified they'd get to you before I could. I won't send you away again, I promise. I'm done with the Company. For real this time."

"Where are Mom and Lyle?" Claire asked. "Are they okay? Do they miss me?"

Bennet bit down hard on his immediate reaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claude flinch. 

"They -- we can talk about them later. Don't worry. What matters is you're safe, okay?"

Claire smiled, and the world felt all right again. She turned and gestured to Baker, who moved as if he were afraid some more invisible people were going to show up and try to shoot _him._

"This is Jack," she said. "He helped me find you. He's like me. He -- "

"Finds things," Bennet said. "I'm aware."

"Someone's been doing their homework," Claude muttered.

"He came all the way from California to find me," Claire said.

"Why?" Bennet asked. If Baker wasn't working for Yamagoto, why was he so desperate to find Claire?

"Nobody knows. Not even Jack," she said, and giggled a little, a laugh on the verge of hysteria. "It's been kind of crazy."

"Tell me about it," Bennet agreed. "Where are you staying? With him?"

"Not...really," she said. "I -- it's a long story. And we kinda don't have a whole lot of time right now. I keep getting busted for sneaking out."

He raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like you at all."

She smiled. "Listen, I'm staying somewhere safe. But I gotta get back. I'll come back tomorrow, okay?"

"Claire -- "

"It's all right, Dad." She kissed his cheek. The look in her eyes was too grown-up for any sixteen-year-old, but it was the same thing he saw in the eyes of others -- Matt, Claude, the kid Jack. Some knowledge that he didn't have. Wouldn't ever have. 

She was safe. She was protected. That was what mattered.

He squeezed her hands. "Okay. Come back tomorrow. I'll be here."

She held out a hand and Baker took it, eyes following her, not even looking at him as they walked out. Bennet followed until they were through the door and down into a subway stop nearby. 

"You let her go easy," Claude said, looking over his shoulder. 

"She's safe?"

"She's indestructible. How much safer do you want?"

"From the Company."

"Safer than most," Claude said bitterly. Bennet turned, walking back down the hallway, and heard Claude following him. He remembered that sound; ghostly footsteps at his heels, nobody there to make them when he turned. 

In the warehouse proper, Matt was still sitting at the table, looking bereft and a little stunned. Bennet didn't blame him, but he didn't have time to answer Matt's questions right now. Instead he turned around, half-expecting Claude would be invisible again. 

He looked older than even the paintings Isaac had done. Older, and tired. And not exactly dressed as sharply as he used to be when they were partners.

And with a few new skill sets, too. 

"You're an Empath," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Your wife and son are dead," Claude replied. 

"You lied to me -- for eight years -- you lied to the Company -- "

"Better than being an experiment," Claude said. "Better than being a Procedure."

"Those people had no options, they were a danger -- "

"They weren't given an option. Not by you."

"I did what had to be done," Bennet said. "And you were right there with me."

"You did what you thought should be done," Claude retorted. "There's a difference."

"I suppose you claim the high moral ground? You did it too -- "

"And I stopped! Did you think I was joking when I said I wouldn't hunt my own people?" Claude shouted. "You didn't care until it was your daughter in the dissection room. Or have you forgotten Timothy?"

"I haven't forgotten any of them," Bennet said through gritted teeth.

"Well, lucky them."

"Do you know why I'm here?" Bennet demanded. "Here, in this freezing warehouse? Do you understand what's going on?"

"Explain it to me then," Claude said, sneering.

"Read my mind," Bennet challenged.

"Don't tempt me."

"Go on. How many times did you do it when we were partners? Here I thought we worked well together, but all along it was just the Empath, pulling the wool over his partner's eyes."

"You think that's all it was? Yes, I just ran round using power, without a care in the world. D'you know what it's like hiding that kind of thing from the Company? Day after day, year after year?"

"Yes," Bennet said. "I do."

"Fine. You want the truth? So do I."

Claude's eyes narrowed to slits and Bennet felt ice run in his veins. This was not Matt's hesitant, workmanlike telepathy; this was someone with experience, with no qualms, digging in his brain for what he might find. Claude was in his head.

At the same time, the link flowed in the opposite direction; thoughts and images passed back to him, Claude's thoughts, Claude's memories. He didn't know what Claude was taking from him, but he knew what he was being shown. Years of cautious hiding, years of restraint, while Claude taught his students and tried to protect the ones he could. And, to Bennet's surprise, not a single contact with his own mind. Not once had Claude invaded his privacy, though he could feel times when he'd wanted to -- times when Claude wanted to _feel_ what it was like to hold your children in your arms or even what it was like to do the job without the slightest hesitation or doubt. 

He saw Peter Petrelli, the man who'd saved his daughter, being trained day after day, hours on end, until Claude himself was so tired he let the pup go because he didn't want to show weakness. He saw Claire through Claude's eyes, the first time they'd met in seven years. And he saw, though the other man tried to hide it, Claude's real name. Given to Peter, for a while, but Claude's first.

And then the images stopped, and he staggered back. Claude hadn't moved. 

"So that's the game," the invisible man said. "A new Company. Good old Alexander. Bet he's dyin' to get his hands on us."

"It's not going to be that way."

"No, it's going to be out and out warfare, and you want me to help you."

"Isn't it better than hiding?" Bennet asked. And then, daringly, "Simon?"

"You've no right to use that name."

"You certainly haven't made much use of it." Bennet turned to Matt. "You wanted to meet Simon Porter. Here he is. This is Matt Parkman."

"Your new partner," Claude said scornfully to Bennet. 

"That's you?" Matt asked. "You're Simon Porter?"

"How the hell does he know that name?" Claude demanded. 

"Didn't you see that?" Bennet said, letting just a hint of nastiness creep in. "Isaac painted your name. Now we know why."

"Some of us do," Claude said. 

"We need you, Claude," Bennet continued. "Linderman won't fund us without you."

"Alexander Linderman can get fucked," Claude said. "You're a day late and a dollar short. I'm not throwing my lot in with a second Primatech. I'm not doing anyone's dirty work for them."

"I told you -- " Bennet started.

"And I don't believe you! You chose the Company over me. It was a near miss with Claire. You don't _give a damn_ , you're not one of us. And I won't be part of anything with you at the head."

"There's another solution," Matt said quietly. Both of them looked at him.

"Matt, maybe you should leave," Bennet said.

"I know I'm not as smart as you guys," Matt said, not quite keeping the dry, bitter tone out of his voice. "And I know I didn't spend the last twenty years or whatever, working all this out. It just seems to me that if we can't fight the Company without him, and he doesn't want another Primatech, the best thing to do would be to put him in charge. Isn't that what the painting says anyway? Managing Director?"

"Have you lost your mind?" Claude asked. "Has he?" he demanded, turning to Bennet.

"I don't know you," Matt shrugged. "But I know Bennet. I know he trusts you."

"He _shot_ me!"

"All the more reason to keep an eye on him," Matt said. There was a thoughtful silence. 

"We need help," Bennet said. "We need leadership. I'm a good field agent, Claude, I'm just as happy doing what I trained for. If that's what it takes to get you on our side -- "

"I'm not on your side. Ever," Claude said. "I'm on their side. Claire's side. Peter's side. Nathan Petrelli's side, and I can't tell you how much _that_ pains me."

"She's my daughter, Claude," Bennet replied. "She's all I have left. I have to protect her. I have to destroy Primatech. And to do that I need you."

"I'm not a businessman," Claude said. 

"No," said another voice, and all three men looked up. 

Angela Petrelli stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyeing them coolly. "But I am."

"Well," Claude said, into the deafening silence, "Isn't this a school reunion."

"Hello, Claude," Angela said, walking forward. He held still, watching warily as she kissed him on the cheek. "I knew you looked familiar before. I understand I owe you Peter's life. Twice."

"He's paid me back," Claude answered.

"I'm glad to hear it. Bennet, how are you?"

"Angela," Bennet replied, offering her his hand. She grasped and shook it, touching his wrist with her other hand. 

"And this must be Mr. Parkman."

"Ma'am," Matt said, nodding shyly. 

"Matt, this is Angela, one of my my old associates. _Our_ old associates," Bennet corrected himself. "Out of the New York office. Now defunct."

"I saw Claire leaving as I arrived; I'm sure her young man will make sure she gets home safely."

"You knew she was here?" Bennet asked. "In New York?"

"Of course I did. Claude, you haven't told him?"

"Told me what?" Bennet demanded.

"Claire is my granddaughter. My eldest son -- Nathan's -- child. I assumed someone would have shared that tidbit with you by now."

Bennet stared openly at her. She smiled at him. 

"You didn't think I worked for the Company all those years for my health? Granted, a secretary's not _very_ well-paid, but they do hear things. I had to make sure someone was looking after her."

"Wait -- " Matt shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. "You're...his adopted daughter's...grandmother."

"That's right."

"And you work for the Company."

" _Worked_ ," she said. "Just long enough to be sure Claire was safe. After a while, you get to know people, people who think like you do...you find things out. Then you don't need to work there anymore. I kept in touch."

"The Haitian," Bennet said. 

"Hmm?" she asked.

"He said he answered to a higher authority than me. He was talking about you."

She nodded. 

"And that means Peter Petrelli..."

"Is your daughter's uncle, yes."

Bennet sat heavily, trying to process all the information he'd absorbed in the past half an hour. 

"We like to keep things in the family," Angela said. "Claude, Mr. Parkman, could I have a few moments alone with Mr. Bennet?"

***

ANGELA PETRELLI, CLAUDE RAINS, AND MR. BENNET - THE NEW YORK OFFICE  
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

"Hello, Angela."

Angela looked up as the door closed; Mr. Bennet was standing in the reception room, smiling a greeting. 

"Mr. Bennet. Nice to see you in New York again," she said. 

"Happy to be here."

"How's your daughter?"

One of the sure ways to make Mr. Bennet light up was to ask him about his daughter. "She's fine. Getting bigger all the time. And looking forward to her new brother, any day now."

"Really? That's wonderful news."

"We certainly think so. I'm here to see Mr. Craig?"

"Yes, he's expecting you. Go ahead." She clicked the door-lock button under her desk. Bennet grasped the handle and pulled. "Not you," she added.

"What?" he asked, pausing.

"Mr. Craig was very explicit that _only_ Mr. Bennet attend the meeting."

Claude appeared over Bennet's shoulder, looking annoyed.

"How does she know?" he asked rhetorically. "She always knows."

"I can't give away all my secrets, Claude."

Bennet gave Claude a _nice try_ look and passed into Mr. Craig's office. Claude moved forward, leaning on her desk.

"So what's a pretty woman like you doing in a dump like this?" he asked.

"I'm old enough to be your mother, Claude."

"You aren't. Let me buy you lunch."

She held up her left hand, wiggling her ring finger, making the wedding band catch the light.

"I said lunch, not a hotel room."

"It's all the same to you."

"Don' make me sit in the corner an' read a magazine. He'll be in there for hours."

She looked up at him, smiled, and reached into a drawer, handing him a book. He rolled his eyes. 

"Entertain me," he said. She laughed; you couldn't help but laugh at Claude sometimes.

"Fine. Tell me about your exciting life in Odessa," she said, turning to look up at him.

"Well, that'll take all of thirty seconds. Tell me about _your_ exciting life in New York." He picked up a new photo frame on her desk. "These your boys?"

"I had it taken last week, right before my older one shipped out."

"Your younger one doesn't look like he appreciates the tie you put him in."

"He's a terror. Thirteen going on three thousand. Do you have children, Claude?"

"None known. I leave the breedin' to Bennet."

"Good news about his wife."

"Oh aye. Bad news for me though. Paternity leave? Are you kiddin' me? Got to break in a new partner and just when I get 'em how I like 'em I get Bennet back again."

"Do you see his daughter much?"

"Every so often. Sweet little thing. Toddlin' and talkin' now. Calls me Kwad. Right then," he added, tapping the book. "I'll betake me off to improve my mind, shall I? _The Red Queen_ \-- what's it about?"

"Sex. You'll like it."

Claude was ten pages in before he looked up over the edge of the book. "You're a cruel woman, Angela."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ AND CLAUDE RAINS - THE WAREHOUSE

All the raised voices in the warehouse woke Isaac, who had set up a cot bed and was sleeping in one of the few rooms in the building that had heating. He missed most of what was being said, but he picked up enough that when the bearded guy left Bennet talking to some old lady, he had kind of figured out what was going on.

"Who's the chick?" he asked the dude, who was studying one of the paintings tacked up on the wall.

"Shove off."

"Fuck you too, man. So, like, are you one of us?" Isaac said, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

"Did you not hear me? Go away," the man replied, giving him an annoyed look. 

"Sorry, it's just, I'm a little strung out, and it looked like you did some mind reading back there."

"Very observant," the man said sarcastically.

"Isaac. Mendez." Isaac held out his hand.

"Claude Rains," Claude said. He didn't shake his hand. 

"You're the guy in my paintings!"

"Burn 'em."

"No, I paint the future."

"I know. Saw your mural. Piece of work, that."

"It's gonna happen."

Claude looked up at him narrowly. "Sorry, mate. Been there, done that, prevented the armageddon."

"No, it is! I've seen it."

"No, it's not. It was, and then it didn't."

Isaac paused. "What?"

"Oh good Christ." Claude rolled his eyes. "You painted _a_ future, not _the_ future. Bloke got hold of a power he couldn't control, started to explode, another bloke nipped in and took him away, big bomb blast in the middle of New Mexico, no more kaboom. Can I make it any clearer for you?"

"It..." Isaac struggle with the concept. "We're not going to die?"

"Not today." Claude looked at him. "Well, some of us, anyway."

"But it's the future! It can't just _not happen!_ " Isaac said, frightened. "What the hell good are any of my paintings if they don't _happen?_ "

"You sound like you were waitin' on it," Claude said. "Be glad it didn't, and beat it."

He didn't wait for Isaac to obey, which Isaac had no intention of doing at any rate. Instead he wandered back to where Bennet and the new chick were talking. Isaac went to his room and sat heavily on the little cot bed.

He knew that he had been clinging on to sanity by his fingernails ever since Simone died. 

Now he gave up and let this news carry him right over the edge.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Caveat:** This chapter contains graphic depictions of suicide, both visual and textual. The image is a link instead of an embedded image, but the text is unaltered. Please be aware.

_Night falls in New York City like it does elsewhere, dusk to darkening, the lights coming on, the people going home._

_In their hotel room, Hiro sleeps and Ando sits up at the table, watching. He is worried for his friend, and worried for himself, but most of all worried that there is a quest out there, and they simply have no way of finding it._

_Mohinder Suresh is reassembling the apartment that Nathan has told him is his, sweeping away the wreckage, clearing up the blood he doesn't remember losing. His father is dead, and he has no memory even of spreading his ashes. There are messages on the phone from his mother, and he has no idea of how he will answer her. But life goes on, and he is there to carry on his father's work. He is living proof of his father's faith._

_Jack leaves Claire at the safe-house and rambles in New York, trying to find answers, which are the most difficult thing of all to locate. He stops to give a fellow-tourist directions, but in his mind he is quite as lost as Hiro, and he does not sleep until very late._

_Amy Martin returns to her apartment, where her roommates have made dinner, and wonders whether she's going to see the Haitian again._

_Late that night Isaac screams and rages in the empty warehouse, flinging cans of paint against the dead walls, until finally a sort of peace comes over him, and a decision is made._

_Sylar's body lies on a slab in a government autopsy room, awaiting a team of specialists who are preparing to discover how this man's physical flesh survived at the centre of a blast._

_Nathan is working. There will always be work for Nathan, but some day soon he will have to stop for a moment and turn to Heidi and try to explain to her that he has a daughter, another child who needs caring-for. Tonight, though, Heidi has asked Peter to dinner and he wants just one night where nobody is angry or unhappy or hurting or insane. His mother is there too, and she smiles and says tomorrow she needs a word with Nathan, but that is the worst that comes._

_At the warehouse, after hours of discussion that grow faintly more civil the longer they talk, Bennet and Matt return to the hotel, where Bennet sleeps soundly for the first time in days. Claude, accepting of his new position but uneasy in his own skin, returns to the safe-house because he has nowhere else to go._

_And Peter isn't there._

***

PETER PETRELLI - PETRELLI FAMILY HOME - NYC

Peter looked at his face in the mirror and frowned. 

His features themselves were unmarred, the same old Peter Petrelli he'd looked at in the mirror every day his whole life. Arching from chin to crown, however, was a long scar curving down one side of his face. It looked almost like an impossibly narrow crescent moon that began at the hairline and swooped past his right eye and along his jaw. 

Right above his temple there was a second scar blending into the first one. It looked like a sunburst, rays radiating outwards, covering perhaps a half-inch near his eyebrow. 

_Like the eclipse,_ he thought, touching the sunburst gingerly. _My face is an eclipse._

His first instinct was to try and salvage what was left of his hair, before Sylar gave him an improptu barber job, and try to cover the scar. He'd have to get a haircut sooner or later, because right now it just looked stupid, and anyway there wasn't enough left in the right places to brush it down over the scar. Growing it long enough to hide it completely would make him look like a dumbass, anyhow. 

It felt weird to be home, standing in the bathroom off his bedroom. He remembered picking up a trimmer one night when he'd had a fight with Dad -- pretty minor, as his teenage fights with Dad went -- and shaving the sides close, leaving just a frill on top to brush over. Very punk, very rebellious, and with the wisdom of ten years added on, kinda stupid-looking. 

Peter considered matters. 

Claude kept telling him it was time to grow up, stop living like a kid, and (unspoken) get a damn haircut. Peter fought Claude every inch of the way because childhood was comfortable, being the stupid younger brother was comfortable -- being the fuck-up of the family meant that nobody had any standards.

Well, he wasn't the fuck-up, and he was slowly realising that nobody had thought of him that way, except himself, in a long time. He was the guy who saved New York. He had a part of Gabriel in him now. Gabriel died -- not Sylar, Gabriel -- so that Peter could walk out of the desert. Claire looked up to him. Nathan would die rather than show it, but he was desperate to have Peter around because Peter understood. Claude needed him in a way he didn't think either of them could articulate, as much as he had once needed Claude. Still did.

He messed it up with Claude today, he knew that, but he was still Claude's student and he'd make it up to him. Adults did that. They fixed the problems they caused. 

Peter looked on the shelf next to the mirror and found a reasonably new jar of gel and a sharp pair of scissors. He could fix some of this damage himself, and the rest wouldn't show when he slicked it back. He used to hate having to put on the suit and tie and slick back his hair for one of Nathan's fundraisers or Mom's parties -- and he still wasn't going to put on a suit -- but he dipped some gel onto his fingers and began brushing his hair back anyway. It felt good to get it out of his eyes. 

Clear-eyed Peter Petrelli, twenty-six years old, a hero with the scars to prove it. 

He kinda liked the new look. 

***

CLAUDE RAINS/SIMON PORTER - THE SAFE HOUSE

Claude eyed his reflection in the mirror, frowning. 

He didn't often bother; before Peter it had been years since anyone had noticed him. Even when he was visible, they just assumed he was a vagrant (very close to the truth) and avoided him. It wasn't amazing to Claude what people didn't notice; it was amazing what people would intentionally blind themselves to.

He turned on the water and let it run until it was a shade warmer than tepid, not quite hot. He splashed water on his face, ran damp fingers through his hair to slick it away from his eyes, and looked down at the razor on the side of the sink.

Peter and Claire, between them, had amassed an astounding array of hair-care products, shaving...things, and skin creams. What they didn't have was a straight-razor, and Claude had never used anything else. They weren't even easy to find, these days, but he'd managed. If you couldn't get it in New York, especially as an invisible man, it probably didn't exist. 

He picked up the razor, opened it, and set it down again. He'd already trimmed as much as he could; now there was no other option.

Time to take the mask off.

He wet his face more thoroughly and picked up the can of Peter's shaving cream, lathering one side of his face. He felt as though he were sinking back into Claude, the Claude who stood behind Bennet, ready to sooth frightened men and women, to show them his trick. The Claude who had signed on to help people after the Company helped him, and hadn't asked why he needed a sidearm to do his bit. The Claude who made a choice to protect his people against the Company, and suffered for it.

He slid the razor down his cheek, cautiously, leaving a bare, pale streak behind. It was slow going, but he only nicked himself once, low on the throat where it wouldn't show anyway. When he was finished with both sides of his face and the annoying fiddly bit below his nose, he studied the results and frowned. He could practically see himself back in Primatech's offices, leashed up and tagged like a good dog.

But Bennet wasn't Primatech. Not anymore. So, back further, perhaps. Or perhaps forward.

There was an electric trimmer in the cupboard over the sink, probably left by some former occupant or provided by thoughtful coppers for whatever reason. Claude plugged it in and tested the buttons, trying to slow his suddenly panicked pulse. 

The man who was Peter Petrelli's teacher, the soon-to-be head of a new company, the fugitive in New York...that was not the man in the mirror. Was not Claude at all.

He switched on the trimmer and set it to 2. He watched his hands, not his face, as he touched it to his scalp and began to work. He was Simon Porter, a kid from the council flats who never did his A-levels, Alexander Linderman's former protege, mentor to half a hundred people who'd passed through his hands in the Company. The Haitian's professor. Timothy's teacher, poor sod. Peter's teacher. 

An Empath. Part of something that meant _us_. 

When he was finished he studied his handiwork, first the clean-shaven jaw and then the close-cropped cap of hair on his scalp. 

"Aw, Christ," Simon said, taking in the overall effect. "I forgot about my bloody ears."

***

CLAIRE BENNET AND SIMON PORTER - THE SAFE HOUSE

"Are you finally done?" Claire asked from the kitchen, when she heard the bathroom door open. "Jeez, you spent more time in there than Peter does -- "

She stopped as she walked into the living room, because there was a stranger standing there. 

"Well, I know it's not a pretty face," he said, "but it's all I've got."

He was wearing Claude's clothes, and he _sounded_ like Claude, but the beard was gone. So was the shaggy-long widow's peak hair that he'd had as long as she'd known him, first in Odessa and these past few days in New York as well. He looked younger, and a lot nicer. 

"What did you do?" she asked. 

"Things're changin'. Can't say the same," he said, trying to look casual. She crossed the room and stood on her toes, brushing her hand across the fuzz on his head. He ducked away. 

"What happened after we left?" she asked. "Did Dad put some kind of whammy on you?"

"Sit," he ordered. "There's things you need to know."

She sat down at the kitchen table and watched as he walked past, rummaging in the fridge for something to eat. 

"I chose my name when I joined the Company," he said, sniffing a block of cheese and then replacing it. "Based on a chance, encouraged by a man I thought I could trust. I chose Claude Rains. Nice guy. Played the Invisible Man in a film once. Married five times."

"O...kay," Claire said cautiously. 

"He knew my real name. The man who recruited me."

"What is it?"

He looked at her, closing the fridge. "The painter, Isaac, found out. So did your dad. Tonight. An' he asked me to be his partner again. Sort of."

"Partner?"

"You be told, Claire Bennet," he said seriously. "Your dad's about to rip the world to pieces for you."

"Well, I didn't _ask_ him to," she said, annoyed.

"S'a parent's job." He rifled through boxes in the pantry. "He's formin' a new company. Competition with Primatech. I'm to lead it. The more fool them for choosin' me." He considered things. "The more fool me for sayin' yes. Your gran, Angela, she's in on it too. Bennet's got a notion that he can bring the Company down. I'm all for it. What we want is somethin' different, you and me."

"We do?"

"Well, I do. An' I don't reckon you're much interested in bein' an experiment, are you?"

"No."

"There you are then. A new Company. No more bag and tags, no more Procedures. No more fear. We find people, we help 'em, and if they can't be helped we don't..." he trailed off. "Well. Your dad can tell you that if ever he wants to, or if you want to hear."

He settled at the table with a plate of crackers and the jar of peanut butter. Claire took a handful and started spreading peanut butter on them, eating them neatly. 

"You and Peter and Jack, and me, and others like us on this side of the line, we're the bait," he said. "We're the hook danglin' in front of men with power, who think they can use us. We've got to use them instead -- their power, their money. It's a fine line to walk. We got to do what's best for our kind, and not let them tell us what that is. If you want out, say so now and I'll get you out of here tonight. You got a life ahead of you. You got a right to live the way you want to live."

"Bennets don't turn and run," she said. "Neither do Petrellis."

"I do," he said. "I run like anything."

"No you don't, or you'd already be gone," she replied. He paused, mid-bite, his eyes watching her. He set the cracker down.

"What do you want?" he asked. "For...life, and all that."

"A normal life," she said.

"What's a normal life, then?"

"I don't know. Going to college, getting a job, having friends." She studied her hands. "I was thinking about what you said. About healing people."

"Mm?"

"Maybe...nursing, like Peter. Or med school. My grades aren't that great, but I could do better. If I knew I had -- "

" -- a purpose."

"Yeah," she said. "So you get it."

"Oh yes." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I do. Good girl. Staying, then."

"Staying," she agreed. "But you have to tell me what your real name is."

"Simon," he said, "It's Simon Porter."

She smiled. "The name you gave Peter in the hospital."

"First name I thought of."

"Simon. Okay."

A door slammed and she leaned over, looking through into the living room. "Peter's back."

"Hiya!" Peter called. "Claude here?"

"Kind of," she answered. 

Peter walked into the kitchen and the tension in the room suddenly jumped several levels. Claire glanced at Claude -- Simon -- and then back at Peter.

"Hullo," Simon said, not looking at Peter. Peter was openly staring. "Sit, then, if you're going to hover there like an idiot."

"I...uh. New...yeah..." Peter swallowed and looked like he was trying to get ahold of himself. "I wanted to say sorry. About this morning."

"Nothin' to say sorry for."

"Yeah, no, there is. I didn't mean it like that," Peter said. Claire frowned. She had no clue what was going on, but clearly Peter had screwed something up. "I didn't mean I didn't want you to teach me anymore. When I said there wasn't any rush I just meant -- it's hard, you know? And I _know_ you're tired too. I just meant it wasn't life and death anymore."

Simon turned to look at him, his face unreadable. 

"What I meant was, we have time. The teaching works. So I'm sorry. I want to be your student."

"Hug him," Claire whispered, grinning. 

"Things're going to be different, Petrelli."

"That's okay. I can keep up. I can," Peter insisted. "You told me to grow up. I'm trying."

"All right. Well, sit down already."

Peter smiled uncertainly and finally sat. Simon shoved the plate of crackers across.

"Dammit, now I have to explain the whole thing over again to _you_ ," he said. 

***

ANGELA, NATHAN, HIRO, AND ANDO - PETRELLI CONGRESSIONAL RAMP-UP OFFICE

"HIRO!" Nathan shouted. 

Hiro and Ando, with not much else to do, kept coming back to the office out of habit. This morning they had a box of doughnuts, because even an unhappy Hiro liked other people to be happy, and doughnuts were a sure way to cheer up an already overworked staff. They glanced his way as they entered and Nathan made an urgent gesture, directing them into his office.

"Hiro, Ando, I'd like you to meet my mother. This is Angela Petrelli," he said, as his mother came forward, offering her hand. In the past hour, she'd explained a few things to Nathan that were at once exciting and terrifying. Mostly exciting, because they meant that hopefully all these abilities and special powers and things were going to be _someone else's problem._ "Mom, this is Hiro Nakamura and Ando Masahashi."

"Pleased to meet you," Hiro said. "Mother of Flying Man."

Angela gave them a small, amused look. "My pleasure. Nathan's told me a good deal about both of you. I have a business proposal which may be of interest."

Ando and Hiro looked at each other.

"A quest," Nathan supplied. It was oddly satisfying to see Hiro's eyes widen. 

"A quest?" Hiro asked carefully. Angela studied the two men.

"A new company is being formed," she said. "To advance the interests of people with specific abilities. Its mission is to locate, assist, and if necessary defend the rights of people who are different. Like my son. And like you. We are recruiting those who already understand their abilities and are interested in helping others."

Ando said something in Japanese to Hiro, who frowned. 

"Please, my English..."

"A company to find others like you and teach them how to use their powers," Nathan said. "They want to hire you to help."

"How?"

"We want you to find people and talk to them. Show them they're not alone." Nathan inhaled. This was vaguely embarrassing. "Like you did for me."

A smile broke across Hiro's face. A real, joyous, enthusiastic smile.

"That was easy," his mother said in an undertone.

"Hiro makes things easy," Nathan replied.

***

CLAIRE, BENNET, AND MATT - THE WAREHOUSE

Bennet wanted to be up and at the warehouse early, but Matt said that six am was pushing it. Claire wasn't going to be running around New York at six in the morning, and even if she was, it wasn't like she wouldn't wait for them there if they weren't there yet. 

Bennet had to concede to the wisdom of this, but after everything that had happened -- finding his daughter, meeting Claude again, laying out the groundwork for the new company -- he had a hard time keeping calm. He paced, he drummed his fingers, he re-tied his tie until he knew he was making Matt crazy.

When they finally did arrive at the warehouse, it wasn't a moment too soon. Claire arrived just as they did, accompanied by Peter Petrelli and a very...different-looking Claude. 

"If we get you into a suit you'll almost look human, Claude," Bennet told him.

"Suits are a ways off," Claude replied, unamused. "And it's Simon now."

"Are you here to start working?"

"We come bearing gifts." Cl -- Simon held up a small portable memory stick. Bennet noticed that he glanced at Peter. "Mohinder Suresh's work. At least a hundred names. Ah -- " he said, as Bennet reached for it. "That stays with me."

"You're going to have to trust me sometime."

"You're going to have to earn it."

Matt unlocked the door and stepped inside, then stopped halfway down the hall.

"Do you smell that?" he asked. 

"I know it smells bad -- " Bennet began, but Matt held up a hand.

"ISAAC?" he called. "ISAAC!"

Bennet gave him a light shove, enough to get him moving down the hallway again. They emerged into the big, chilly, open room of the warehouse to find what little furniture there had been was cleared away against the walls. In its place stood an easel with a single painting on it. Matt tilted his head. 

"What's this?" he asked. 

Bennet came forward, studying the image with deliberate, cautious care. The most eye-catching portion of the whole thing was a light-house in the distance, a bright yellow flare against the sky. 

In the foreground there were two figures in wheelchairs, their faces dull but unmistakeable, their eyes staring out at the water. There was a sign, too, but Bennet wasn't looking at the sign in the painting.

"Sandra," he breathed.

"Is that Mom?" Claire asked. "Why's she in a wheelcha -- is that _Lyle?_ "

Bennet touched the painting, wondering if he was just hoping too hard or if Isaac had uncovered another lie of the Company.

"Matt," he said. "Telephone."

Matt put a cellphone in his hand. He flicked it open and dialled information.

"I'm looking for a hospital called Our Lady of Perpetual Hope," he said. "I'm not sure what city."

"Please hold."

He did. He held his _breath._

"Connecting you now."

Simon seemed to understand what was going on; he was gently pulling Claire away from the painting, towards the windows to show her the view. Peter went with them. Bennet felt Matt's broad hand on his shoulder. 

"Our Lady of Perpetual Hope," said a woman's voice. Bennet swallowed.

"I'm looking for two people who may have been admitted," he said. "A woman and her son. Possibly to psychiatric."

"Sir, do you have their names?"

"I think they may have been admitted by mistake, under the wrong names."

"Well, mix-ups do happen, but usually we don't confuse peoples' _names_ , sir."

"Is there anyone there with the last name of Bennet?"

He heard the rattle of a keyboard.

"We do have a Sara Bennet -- and her son, Lawrence."

"What's your address?"

He scrawled the address, somewhere in Rhode Island, on a scrap of paper.

"Thank you," he said, and hung up. He pressed the paper into Matt's hand.

"They've been drugged. The Company's done it to others before. They're here -- I don't care how you get them," he said. "Get them."

Matt opened his mouth to say something, but then his expression changed.

"I called my wife last night," he said. "She'll be here at three. I told her I'd pick her up."

They stared at each other for a long minute. He could see Simon watching out of the corner of his eye. 

Matt had come with him across half the country, had made sure he ate when he forgot, had looked after him, gone along with plan after plan. Matt had chosen sides. More than that, Matt had heard his thoughts and been in his head. Matt had put Bennet's daughter ahead of his own wife and child. Matt was his partner, but Partner means Equal. 

And now, Matt's expression clearly said, it was his turn.

"They're alive," Matt said quietly. "They'll be alive at three this afternoon."

Simon sauntered over, leaving Claire and Peter at the window. "Trouble in paradise?" he inquired. Bennet nodded at the painting and held out the paper in a mute plea. Simon took it, studied it, and frowned. 

"I know a bloke," he said. "Three, in fact. Gimme your phone."

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE

***

JACK BAKER - HUMANITY HOSTEL - NYC

Jack was woken by two men shaking him roughly.

This was not the way he spent most mornings. 

He opened his eyes, rubbed them, and stared up into the cheerful faces of Hiro and Ando.

"What the hell?" he asked.

"RESCUE MISSION!" Hiro replied.

***

SIMON, BENNET, MATT, AND ISAAC - THE WAREHOUSE

While Simon made a call, Bennet explored further, checking to see if Isaac was sleeping. He put his head into the little room the painter was using as a bedroom. 

Then he backed out again, slowly, and shut the door. 

"What is it?" Matt asked, coming up behind him. 

"Isaac's dead."

"What?"

"Keep your voice down," Bennet said, and opened the door again. Matt stared in horror.

There was a canvas in this room, too.

***

ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE

_[There was a canvas in this room, too.](http://pics.livejournal.com/copperbadge/pic/004r6p93) _

***

MATT, BENNET, AND SIMON - THE WAREHOUSE

It was daubed with something that for a second you could claim was reddish-brown paint, except after that second you'd have to admit the truth. Isaac had used his fingers. And his own blood. In the painting, the figure of a man lay stretched out in a chair, arms flung over the sides, legs skewed, head tilted back. Blood dripped from his fingers.

Ten feet away, the real thing stared them in the face, except that the blood no longer dripped. It had dried in clotty pools on the floor. Both his wrists were slit up to the elbow. 

Bennet shut the door a second time. Matt looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Don't tell my daughter. Don't tell Petrelli. Cl -- Simon's a telepath; tell him silently," Bennet said. Matt nodded. "We'll deal with this later. Right now you need to get your wife and I need to get my family." 

"Well, that's taken care of," Simon said, closing the phone and approaching. "What's -- "

Matt turned to him and closed his eyes; Simon stopped in his tracks and his lips tightened.

"Startin' already, is it?" he asked, coldly.

"I didn't do this," Bennet said.

"I did," Matt said. Both men looked at him. "I knew he -- he said he hoped the bomb blast killed us all. I think he meant he wanted to die in it."

"And I told him it din't happen," Simon added. "Grand way to start a new world, this is."

"Don't tell Claire."

"She doesn't know him. Don't tell _Peter._ He might do a dance. He hated the bastard."

"What do we do?" Matt said. Simon put his hand on the doorknob.

"Locked from the inside, now. Come back when nobody's here and take care of it," he said to Bennet. "Company business starts now, and as of now only you two are in this company. We didn't kill Mendez. If we'd been here from the start he wouldn't be dead now. So he's a casualty of Primatech."

Bennet looked at him. Simon's mouth was set.

"Believe that," he said. "Or else we're done from the start. And we start today."

***

LINDERMAN - ROOF OF THE CORINTHIAN HOTEL - LAS VEGAS

Alexander Linderman was working in a small rooftop conservatory when the black telephone on the wall rang insistently; he put down the orchid he was about to repot, wiped his fingers on a pristine white towel (it would be gone by the end of the day, replaced with a new one) and picked up the telephone.

"Mr. Linderman, Mr. Bennet is on the line."

"Thank you; put him through."

There was the soft tap-click of the phone transfer, and then a slight background buzz that told him the line was live. 

"Mr. Bennet," he said, cheerfully. "What news this afternoon?"

"Good and bad," Bennet replied. "The precog is dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Failure is always difficult to recover from -- "

"His name was Isaac Mendez," said a new voice, and Linderman felt his pulse jump.

"The artist, Mendez?" he asked carefully.

"That's right, Lex," the voice said. He must have taken the telephone from Bennet.

"Claude. How surprising to hear from you again."

"My name is Simon."

"Ah. A solid name, Simon; very biblical," Linderman said. "I see Bennet has been recruiting."

"That's one word for it. You'll deal with me from now on. Bennet has taken on field operations; I'll be heading the company."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes." A single, chilly word. 

"I look forward to a fruitful working relationship with Primatech's newest competitor. You'll have a budget prepared soon?"

"How corporate we are, Lex."

"This was presented as a business proposal. As I understand it I am speaking with the chief executive officer of -- or have you even selected a name yet?"

"Hirou," Simon replied. "Hirou International."

"Japanese?"

"It seemed appropriate. I'm the Managing Director; Peter Petrelli will be Chief Officer."

"I've not met him. I look forward to it."

"You won't like him."

"Oh?"

"He's painfully honest."

Linderman bit down on a sharp reply. "Very well. Do inform me of what you require; I'll await news quite interestedly. Quite interestedly."

"I'm sure you will," Simon replied. 

Linderman hesitated, which he hated; the name came out of his mouth sounding more desperate than he'd like, trying to keep Simon from hanging up.

"Simon."

"Yes?"

"Have you thought of us? Since you left?"

A long silence. 

"D'you mean since you gave evidence and Bennet tied the noose?" Simon finally asked.

"I'd call it a judicious action neither of us were given much chance to avoid."

"Funny. What I remember is that I told my old teacher in confidence that I was protecting a ten-year-old from being brutalised by the Company, and you went straight to Thompson, and Thompson went to Bennet, and Bennet shot me."

"I was bargaining for my freedom. I'm not sorry."

"I didn't reckon you would be, Lex. Glad to know you've made good use of the freedom you traded my life for."

"You seem to have weathered death well." Linderman frowned. "Why on earth would you accept this position, Simon? Between the devil and the deep blue sea, as it were."

"Keeps m'claws sharp," Simon said, and there was a click as the line went dead.

***

_Some superheroes die._

_Most don't, though. They live or they come back or they're revived by some magical touch or alien technology or scientific breakthrough. Sometimes it's so simple that they just get retconned. The writer changes the story._

_That's not the way it is in the world where the writers live. In that world, most heroes are pretty ordinary people who happen to do extraordinary things. We are used to thinking that a hero is a construction worker who leaps under a train to save a college student, a cop who catches a baby thrown out of the third-story window of a burning building, a firefighter who runs towards the towers instead of away from them, a teacher who steps between his students and a madman._

_And they are. Of course they are. But those people die, and when they die nothing brings them back. Their actions stand._

_A hero realises their own power, calls it up, and offers it to a world that isn't always prepared to accept it. Even if you can fly, that's not necessarily the power you can offer. Maybe that power is the ability to convince someone that a just law should be passed and an unjust law repealed. Even if you can stop time, maybe your real power is the desire, brimming so high it infects others, to help people. Even if you can heal, maybe your real power is the ability to heal others._

_Even if you can do anything, anything at all, maybe your real power lies in how you pass on the knowledge. Don't they say teachers are heroes?_

_Heroes find the lost and comfort them. They hear desperation and sooth it. They take the fire in their own hands to keep it from burning others. They fix things that are broken. They protect their families. They protect other peoples' families. That's a heavy cross to bear. Even for the angels._

_Sometimes they die. Chandra died because he knew more than a ruthless killer wanted him to know. Charlie died for no reason. So did Ted and Zane and Dale. Eden died to stop Sylar, and Sylar burned away. Gabriel died to save Peter's life. Isaac died of grief, because nobody found him soon enough. Peter's father died of the same disease._

_But sometimes they live. Winter has come to New York (and to Ojai and Odessa and Las Vegas and even Dayton) but winter is only temporary. Something lives. They live. They do great things._

_Just wait and see what the heroes will do._


	21. Epilogue

ISAAC MENDEZ - UNDATED PAINTING

* * *

**SIX WEEKS LATER**

JACK, SIMON, AND MIKEY - DAYTON, OHIO

Corndogs were one of the finest achievements, in Simon's opinion, of the culinary arts.

Really. A sausage, battered in cornmeal and fried in fat. And when you were done you had a stick you could poke people with. Corndogs. Absolutely amazing things.

Jack elbowed him in the ribs. Simon did not take naturally to Jack, but he was trying, so he let that go and finished chewing, shoving the stick in his pocket.

"There he is," Jack said, pointing to a boy in a baseball uniform, stretching and cracking his neck as he walked towards the locker rooms, leaving behind a knot of excited teammates and underdressed cheerleaders. "HEY! MIKEY!"

The boy turned his head and then broke into a run, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel. "Jack! Hi!" 

"Careful," Jack said, wincing as they shook hands. Mikey beamed at him.

"How are you? How'd it go in New York? Who's the dude?" he asked, breathlessly. 

Teenagers. If you gave him a choice between teenagers and corndogs, Simon knew immediately which he would pick. 

"Mr. Porter, this is Mikey. Mikey, this is Simon Porter."

"That's all right," Simon said, declining to shake as Mikey put his hand out. "Heard a lot about you, Mikey."

"From Jack? There isn't much to say really," Mikey said shyly. 

"Mr. Porter's been training me," Jack continued. "He wanted to come meet you."

"That I did. I hear you're the lad who lifts SUVs for fun."

Mikey grinned. "Did you see the game?"

"It was great," Jack said. "Hey, you got a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?" Mikey waved as a few of his teammates walked past.

"Mr. Porter's pretty interested in people like us," Jack said. "He runs this whole company, well, we're just starting up, that helps people. We were kinda wondering if you wanted in."

Mikey's brow furrowed. "Like...a job?"

"Sorta more like summerschool. Only not," Jack added quickly, glancing at Simon, who said nothing. The kid had to learn how to do this on his own sometime. "We want you to come to New York for a while and show off what you can do. Like a sports clinic. And maybe learn a few things about controlling it and stuff."

Mikey scratched his neck. "When?"

"Whenever you want. Or..." 

"Hirou International has an educational fund," Simon stepped in, saving Jack more awkward dancing around the subject. "We arrange scholarships for promisin' youth. S'a full-ride baseball scholarship to the school of your choice, anywhere in New York state, in return for your help."

Mikey stared at him. "That's -- wow, really?"

"Really."

"That's great! It's just..." Mikey hesitated. 

"It's cool, Mikey," Jack said encouragingly.

"Well, there's this girl..."

Simon groaned inwardly. Wasn't there always.

"She wants to go to UC Davis. And there's some good baseball schools in California. New York...that's across the country."

Years ago, there would have been a bag and tag, coercion, pressure, scare tactics. Now Simon smiled tolerantly.

"It's up to you, Mikey. Here." He passed over one of his cards. _Simon Porter, Managing Director, Hirou International._ His number was on the back. "The offer's good as long as you're interested. And if you want to come out to New York just to see, gi' us a call. Jack'll show you round."

"Thanks. Hey, you want to come grab a bite with us, Jack? The team's cool, they'll like you."

Jack glanced at Simon, who nodded slightly. It wasn't so much granting permission; he wasn't the kid's father. It was more an encouragement to go, because a lot of things got said over a meal that couldn't be said elsewhere. 

"Cool, yeah. Definitely," Jack said.

"Great. Imma go get changed, I'll be back, stay here," Mikey said. When he was gone, Jack frowned.

"I could have done it myself," he said.

"Next time, do. Don' tiptoe around it. Things go a lot faster if you're frank about 'em."

"It's harder to talk to people about it with you listening all the time."

Simon laughed. "Good, then when I shove you out of the nest to flap your little wings on your own, it'll seem easy."

***

THE PETRELLI BROTHERS - _HELLO! MANHATTAN_ STUDIOS

"And, after the break, Senator Nathan Petrelli grants _Hello! Manhattan_ his first public interview since the shooting that shocked New York two weeks ago. Stay tuned."

"The bandages itch," Nathan muttered to Peter.

"Don't scratch, you'll pull your mic," Peter replied.

"You're enjoying this."

"Well...yeah."

Emma, the same woman who'd interviewed him about the Superman pin, left the newsdesk and crossed over to their set, where Nathan was sitting stiffly in one of their surprisingly uncomfortable chairs. 

"Ready to go?" she asked, sitting across from him.

"I'm still on drugs," Nathan told her. She laughed.

"It's okay, the bosses told me to soft-pedal you. No hard questions for the guy who just got shot," she said. 

"I'll make a note to get shot before I go on _Hardball_ ," he said. "Emma, have you met Peter?"

"In the green room." She nodded at him. "Nice of you to come with your brother."

"I'm a nurse," Peter said, smiling. "It's only sensible."

"Emma, thirty seconds," someone called.

"Thanks thirty," she called back, sifting through her notes. Nathan noticed that she glanced at his lapel. 

"Got it," he said, tapping the Superman pin. "Never go anywhere without it."

"A lucky charm?"

"In more ways than anyone knows."

"And back in five, four," _three, two, one..._

The anchor still at the newsdesk introduced them and gave a brief history of Congressman Nathan Petrelli and his campaign, including a video clip of the police entering Nathan's house the morning after the shooting. Nathan tried not to watch.

"Thanks, Rick," Emma said, turning to smile at the camera. "I'm here with Senator Nathan Petrelli and his brother, Peter Petrelli -- good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning, Emma," Nathan said, while Peter mumbled a smiliar greeting. "Good to be back here again."

"Though under less than ideal circumstances, I take it. People are wondering how you're managing to get around so soon after a fairly serious injury."

"Well, there's a lot of work to be done," he said. "I move a little more slowly than usual, but I get everywhere I need to be."

"We're glad you could make it today. I know the details of this shooting have been very vague up until now, but a lot of people are asking -- who would want to shoot New York City's newest congressman, and why?"

"It's a hard story, and not really a happy one for anyone concerned," Nathan said. "Public figures sometimes become targets for no other reason than they are...public figures."

"Take us through events, step by step."

"I wish I could. Some things we just don't know yet. What I know, what I remember, is waking up next to my wife to find someone standing over me, holding a gun."

"That would be the woman identified in the police reports as 'Niki'."

"Yes. She was a volunteer on the campaign, not particularly one of our shining stars, but dedicated to the campaign as all our volunteers are," Nathan said. "At the time, there was a lot of work going on and it slipped through the cracks that she wasn't officially on the roster. We don't even know her last name."

Little white lies -- well, big white lies, really. But they did protect DL and Micah, and DL and Micah were worth protecting. 

"I was more concerned about my family -- my first instinct was to get up and make sure my sons were safe, to put myself between the gun and my wife. I did my best to find out why Niki was there, what I could do to get her to put the gun down."

"And what did she say?"

Nathan shook his head. "I don't recall the precise words. I know the general meaning; she felt that she'd been a vital part of the campaign, and that she was being unjustly ignored now that the election was over."

"Was she?" Emma asked. Smart woman.

"Volunteers work for us on the understanding that they're working for the common good of the city. I'm very careful never to make promises I can't keep. Since the election I have hired on three or four volunteers as staff members, but that's always based on merit and passion. Niki wasn't a passionate volunteer. In fact she was a very mentally unbalanced young woman."

Emma nodded sympathetically. "Clearly. What happened next?"

"I tried to keep her calm, keep her talking, but she was angry. I wanted to find out why, to see what we could do to fix the problem..." Nathan spread his hands, trying not to wince. "I was in the middle of asking her how I could help when the gun went off."

"According to your early press release, the day after the shooting, you were shot three times."

Nathan smiled. "I think it would have been more if it weren't for Peter. I only remember the first one."

Emma looked at Peter, who looked like he wanted to hide behind his hair. Which was a difficult maneuver when it was slicked back against his head. 

"Peter Petrelli, hero of the hour," she said. "Maybe the Senator ought to give you that Superman pin."

"I -- " Peter glanced at Nathan uncertainly. "It wasn't really a conscious decision. It's what you do."

"Let's hear your side of the story. As I understand it, you don't live with your brother and his wife -- why were you there that night?"

"Well, that's kind of interesting," Peter said. More interesting than anyone knew, in fact; the public probably wouldn't take too well to the idea that Peter Petrelli, Congressman Petrelli's adorable and oddly damaged younger brother, had a psychic dream and got up in the middle of the night to go stop a shooting. "That was a, what, a Thursday night?" he asked Nathan, who nodded. "I came over for dinner, we do that a lot, and I didn't want to drive home after two glasses of wine. I crashed in my old bedroom from when we were kids, they keep it for me." Peter smiled, a winning Petrelli smile. "I'm really glad I did."

"I think most of New York City is glad you did," Emma said warmly. "What happened then?"

"Oh, about midnight I woke up and heard people talking, and I thought Monty had gotten out of bed or something -- that's my nephew -- so I got up to see if everything was okay. Then I heard this...woman."

"Niki."

"Yeah. So that was -- a little weird. I went down the hall to see what was going on and then the gun went off. By the time I got there, it was just, man. I've never seen anything like that."

Also untrue, in a sense, but perhaps nuclear explosions didn't look like your brother bleeding to death in his own bed.

"I kind of...tackled her, I guess, and we fought, and the gun went under the bed -- and she went through the window," Peter said. He'd thrown her through the window, in point of fact, to keep her from getting to the gun. Throwing women through windows, however, especially when you did it with telekinesis, was not good PR.

"She got away."

"I was kinda more worried about Nathan at the time."

"Naturally."

"Yeah. Heidi was awake, of course, and she -- she's a trooper, Heidi. She was trying to stop the bleeding."

Emma consulted her notes. "Now, I see that you're a nurse, is that right?"

"That's right. So I took over and told her to call 911. Oh, we should..." Peter gestured at Nathan.

"Yes, of course," Nathan said smoothly. This part they'd rehearsed. "I've said this before, but we do especially want to say a public thank-you to the New York City metro police and the Grace Hospital paramedics who were there that night. They don't get enough thanks for the job they do. The EMTs literally saved my life on the way to the hospital."

"Peter, you rode along with them?"

"I sort of had my hand on an artery, so I had to," Peter said. "But the cops were great too, they made sure the family was safe and drove them to the hospital."

"Senator Petrelli, you were in surgery for a long time."

"About four hours. So they tell me," Nathan said. "I've been in longer meetings."

Emma laughed. "The glamorous life of a politician?"

"Well, I'd prefer the meetings to being shot."

"No doubt. What's your prognosis on recovery? You seem to be doing fairly well."

"I'm in physical therapy twice a week, that'll go on for another four weeks, and the wounds are healing. I can do everything I need to for the city, and that's what's important for me."

"Any pain?"

"Stiffness, mostly." _Such_ a lie. In the mornings it hurt to _exist._

"I see just a little bit of bandage peeking out of your collar..."

Nathan smiled and cautiously leaned forward, unbuttoning the top of his collar and pulling the shirt open a little. "No Superman suit," he quipped. "That's the first gunshot, just under my collarbone."

"And this woman has yet to be caught. How do you account for that?"

"We have a lot of people who've given descriptions of her, and the police are doing their best, but New York has eight million people in it. It's hard to find someone who doesn't want to be found. And there are theories that she committed suicide, that she might be at the bottom of the river somewhere."

"Do you believe them?"

Nathan frowned. "I hope not. I hope we can find her and get her the help she needs. This wasn't some malicious stunt or a robbery gone bad. This woman is sick, and she needs to get professional assistance. Arresting her is going to make her less of a danger to others, but once she's found, she should get psychiatric treatment."

"Very forgiving words, coming from someone in your position."

"I'm not interested in revenge. I'm interested in keeping my family safe, and representing the people of New York City."

"And Peter?" Emma said.

"Hm?" Peter said. 

"Do you agree with your brother about Niki? You actually fought with her and saw what she did to your brother. Do you feel the same way?"

"Well, I um." Peter glanced at Nathan again. "It's hard to let go of wanting to see someone hurt when they've hurt your family. I still...think about it. That night, I mean. But he's the one who got shot, so if he can, I guess I can."

"I'd like to slip in a political question, if I could," Emma said, grinning slyly. "Has this incident changed your stance on gun control at all, Senator Petrelli?"

Nathan chuckled, which hurt like a _motherfucker._

"I was elected on a platform that included a middle-ground constitutional policy on gun control," Nathan said. "I support the Second Amendment, though I also support the current policies in place in New York to control the sale of dangerous weapons of all types. What I am strengthening on, after this, is increased funding for mental illness awareness and treatment."

"Something I'm sure many New Yorkers will be happy to hear. That's all the time we have for now -- Senator Petrelli, Mr. Petrelli, thank you for your time. I wish you all the best in your recovery."

"Thank you, Emma."

The cameras shut off and Nathan curled forward, wrapping his arms around his ribcage.

"Senator?" Emma asked, but Peter waved her off.

"I told you not to laugh," Peter said, hands on his shoulders. "Breathe, okay?"

"I'm all right," Nathan gasped. "It happens. Might've pulled a stitch."

"Does he need anything?" one of the cameramen asked. 

"He's okay, give him a minute," Peter said, and then Nathan felt Peter in his head.

_Hey, remember how we worked on this? Deep breaths. Shoulders down. I got painkillers in my pocket, you can have them when we get to the car._

Nathan felt himself relax and knew that Peter was behind it, but he didn't care. Telepaths -- better than drugs. 

He uncurled carefully, leaning back. 

"Sorry," he said to Emma, and meant it. 

"I see what you mean about taking things slow," she said. 

"Can we keep this quiet?"

"Hey, you were shot two weeks ago. That's news. Two minutes of you in pain? Not news," she replied. "Do you need help? You can sit in the green room for a while if you want."

"I'm just gonna take him out to the car, get him home for a while," Peter said. Nathan stood, felt Peter steadying him, and shook Emma's hand.

"It's a real pleasure," he said.

"Anytime."

When he got to the car he passed out, and only woke up when Peter helped him up the stairs and into the house, easing him down on the sofa.

"I'm going to shoot Jessica Sanders in the head," Peter said to Nathan. "All that forgiveness crap? Is crap."

"I'll buy you the gun," Nathan agreed. Peter rubbed his shoulder, the one that hadn't had a bullet dug out of it.

"Get some rest. I got you covered." He grinned. "About time I started taking care of you."

* * *

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

JACK, CLAIRE, HIRO, PETER, AND SIMON - NEW YORK CITY

When Jack and Claire came through exit security at LaGuardia, Jack knew that Hiro noticed the difference right away. Jack was a touchy-feely kind of guy (well, Hiro was known to hug a few people once in a while) but he touched Claire differently now. It was just that he couldn't stop -- and she kept leaning into him and smiling at him so he knew he wasn't alone and anyway she probably didn't care that Hiro knew, because Hiro was cool about people. 

"Car's this way," Hiro said, leading the way. "Look!" he added, excitement overriding curiousity. "New driver's licence."

He held up his shiny new New York driver's licence and smiled to match the picture.

"You sure it's safe to ride with you?" Jack asked. 

"Safer than with you," Hiro replied. "Also, new car."

"Hey, your very own Versa!" Jack said, skimming a hand over the hood of the car. "Totally awesome." 

"Corporate car," Hiro announced, climbing in. Claire took shotgun and Jack sat behind her, leaning forward to rest his chin on the shoulder of the front seat. Jack filled the car with chatter as they drove, mostly about his family in Ojai and taking the GED and how he could finally get high school behind him and work on getting into NYU. 

"Liberal arts?" Hiro suggested.

"How'd you guess," Jack grinned. There was also the Oregon portion of the trip to discuss, and whether or not they thought the family of Arborpaths would really be willing to pull up roots (ha! Because they could make plants grow!) and come to New York for a summer to see Hirou International in action and maybe let Mohinder do some labs. 

By the time they pulled up to the Petrelli family home, it was getting dark out. Hiro had places to be; he was working his way laboriously through the Lord of the Rings in English and the New York Tolkien Society was waiting for his opinions on the latest chapter with bated breath. 

"Leave me here, I'll scrounge dinner," Jack said, noticing that Simon was sitting on the porch and arguing furiously with Peter. "Catch you tomorrow, huh? Doctor Who marathon on Sci-Fi!" 

Hiro gave him a thumbs up and pulled away. 

"Debriefing time," Jack said quietly.

"You tell it," Claire said.

"No, you can if you want."

"My gift to you," she said, and _smiled_ at him again. 

"Because you're a fucking idiot, that's why!" Simon's voice drifted down from the porch. 

"Are we interrupting?" Claire asked, climbing the steps. Both men stood, startled, and glanced at each other. "Lover's spat?"

"Listen, will you tell him -- " "Claire, I ask you -- "

"God, _boys_ ," Claire said, sitting down on the railing. "Simon tells Peter he's a moron, Peter tells Simon he's an asshole, and tomorrow you'll go throw bricks at each other or something until you reach a compromise you could get to in two minutes if you didn't have some repressed urge to hit each other until you bleed."

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. Simon scowled.

"So, debriefing?" Jack said cheerfully.

"Arborpaths, go," Simon ordered.

"whole family. Two parents, an uncle, and three kids. Youngest one is about ten, not showing yet, probably will soon. They don't need much help, they're farmers, so they've got a built-in excuse for all the plant life around. Good people."

"You gave them all the contact information?"

"They said they'll think about it. You may want to go out and visit."

"Short report. Like that," Simon said.

"Well..."

Simon crossed his arms. "Well?"

"There was this dude," Jack started. "I picked up on him in Portland. I mean -- he's one of those, you know, he could really, really use some help."

"What's his story?"

"Talks to cats. He's got about fifteen of 'em."

Simon's lips twitched. "He talks to cats."

"Yeah."

"Do they talk back?"

"Cats aren't that bright, apparently. They do what he tells them, though," Jack said. "Seriously, I think you should -- "

"He stabbed Jack," Claire blurted. 

"Dude, I thought I was telling this," Jack said. 

"Well, he's not _obviously_ bleeding," Peter pointed out. 

"You keep your trap shut, I'm not done with you," Simon said. "How'd it happen?"

"It was...really cool, actually," Jack said. 

"Cool." Simon repeated. "You were stabbed by a man who talks to cats and that was...cool."

"Well, okay, it was like this, see, we went there, and we were all, hi, we're special and you are too, wanna talk about it, whoa you got a lot of cats," Jack said, talking fast because if he didn't, Simon was going to make fun of him. "So Claire was all, I'll look around and I was like, I'll go talk to you in the kitchen, how ya doing dude, I find stuff, what's your special power, the usual, and he was like, chopping up meat."

"For the cats," Claire added.

"And okay, maybe I got a little enthusiastic," Jack admitted. "I suck at the soft sell, you know that."

"That's why she goes with you, because she's smarter'n you," Simon said ominously.

"So he was like, no, no, no, stop talking, just leave me alone with the cats, they're very quiet, and I said okay and I was going to go and then whammo! Butcher knife! IN THE RIBS!"

Jack pulled up his shirt to show off. Peter and Simon bent over to examine the wound. 

"Can I?" Peter asked, and Jack nodded. He prodded Jack's ribs, studying the straight, tidy, four-inch scar on his right side. It wasn't much more than a raised white line. "This is old."

"No, that's the great part!" Jack let his shirt drop. "I went over flat and all the cats went RAWR and the dude locked himself in his bathroom. So there I am, bleeding on the floor, and Claire," he said, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her against his hip, "pulls the knife out, shoves her fingers in, and stops the bleeding. Just like that."

Simon raised his eyebrows at Claire. 

"Well, it didn't hit any organs," she said. "It wasn't anything great or anything."

"It was pretty great to the dude bleeding to death on a floor covered in cat hair," Jack said. "And then she pulled her fingers out, which, gross, and closed up the wound."

"Just like that," Simon said, looking at Claire. "Congratulations, you've just upgraded yourself from Autohealer, Claire Bennet."

She smiled. "I think I can do it again, with some practice."

"Let's hope so. What's the status of cat-talker?"

"I left a card. I really do think someone should help him," Jack said earnestly. 

"I'll see who we know in the area."

"Hey," Peter said, suddenly. He looked back and forth between Jack and Claire. 

"Um, that's the other thing," Claire said. "Not like, company business."

"You're _dating_ ," Peter said to Jack.

"You're _fourteen_ ," Simon said to Peter. 

"We're trying it out," Claire told them both. 

"Yeah, I can smell the hormones from here," Simon replied. "Run on in, you're expected. And your mum says breakfast with her and Bennet tomorrow morning or you're disowned!" he called after her, as she ran into the house to say hello to Nathan and Heidi. Jack loitered on the porch, nervously. Nathan still looked at him sometimes in ways that made him fear for his life. 

Simon followed her inside, giving Peter a significant look that Jack couldn't interpret -- telepathy sometimes ticked him off, because he could never tell when people were talking. 

"Hey," Peter said, looking worried. "Listen, about you and Claire..."

"I'm pretty sure Nathan's gonna threaten me, so you don't have to if you don't want to," Jack said.

"No! No, it's just..." Peter rubbed the back of his head. "Is it real? Not for you, I know it's real for you. It's just...don't get too attached if you don't think Claire's into this."

"Worried about me?" Jack asked, grinning.

"Sorta."

Jack chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. "Getting stabbed might be the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean...I was lying there, and I felt her hand in my ribcage, you know, I felt her touch my actual rib bone. And her face was like...I dunno. She looked scared and upset and like she was finding something out she didn't know before. And then later she said, she was really scared I was gonna die. She said she didn't want to think about me not being there anymore. And other stuff, private stuff, you know."

"You don't think it might not just be fear? Or guilt?"

"Could be," Jack shrugged. "I'd like to think it's destiny."

"I thought you gave up on destiny."

"Yeah, well, almost dying changes your mind about a few things."

Peter studied him. "You're too old, Jack."

"I'm eighteen."

"Not in your head. In your head I think you're about ten years older than Simon."

Jack smiled. "Don't tell anyone."

"Our secret. What about Claire?"

"She's in New York for at least another year, that's enough time for us to sort ourselves out. And I'm not going anywhere. Not without her, anyway."

"Are you comin' or what?" Simon asked, leaning out the door. Jack passed into the house, Peter following, and went to stand at Claire's side where she was talking to Nathan, one of her brothers clinging to her leg affectionately.

* * *

**SIX YEARS LATER**

PETER PETRELLI AND SIMON PORTER - HIROU INTERNATIONAL HEAD OFFICE

Peter finds himself one day, with no urgent telephone calls and no meetings, no place he has to be. 

He leaves his desk in the office and walks out into the corridor, turning left into the gallery. Isaac's paintings are hung here, none of them on frames, all casually tacked to the wall with pins or tape. The more disturbing ones have been rolled up and set aside, but there are still a lot here. On one side, the ones that are yet to happen, some which may never happen now. On the other, the ones that have come true. He drifts a hand along them -- Claire in scrubs, smiling; a baby girl they've just identified as Hope Parkman; Nathan sitting in a hospital bed, wrapped in clean white bandages; Mohinder's wedding. 

He passes the wall where the door used to be, the one leading to the room Isaac killed himself in. There's a cold space there -- Telepaths and Precogs feel it strongest. It's no secret that the walled-off room exists; it's just not something they talk much about. In front of the place where the door was is Isaac's last painting, _OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL HOPE_. Which is a promise: never again another suicide. Never again another death on their heads.

At the end of the gallery he can hear voices; Simon discontented with something, Micah's rebellious cracking teenage voice in reply. Simon is always discontented with something. Otherwise he wouldn't be Simon.

Peter stands in the doorway to the open, airy room, lit by high windows, filled with electronic odds and ends. Micah is sitting in front of some machine only he knows the purpose of, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Hey," Peter says. "Take a break. Get a sandwich or something, kid."

"Not until he gets this," Simon replies. Micah snorts.

"Come on, lay off him," Peter says. He wonders, for the first time in ages, when he started being able to talk to Simon like that. "I want you for an hour or two."

"Fine. We'll get nothing done this way anyway," Simon relents. "But I've got my eye on you, Sanders."

Micah gives Peter a grateful look and heads out another door, down towards the poky little kitchen. Peter gestures with his head, and Simon joins him in the gallery. 

"It's about the genetics lab," Peter says, as they walk. 

"You took me off teaching to talk to me about Suresh?" Simon sounds annoyed. 

"I'm a little worried about him. He's working too hard. He keeps saying he's close to decoding it, but he's been sleeping here the last two nights. I'm not concerned about speed, I want good solid repeatable results. I want you to talk to him."

"For the love a' fuckin' God, Peter."

"You asked me to tell you this kind of thing. I'm telling you. You're both obsessives, he'll listen to you."

Even now, Simon doesn't let his barriers down very often. Peter's never been able to touch his mind without his permission, not that he'd try. Still, there is a kinship between the only two Empaths still living -- the only two who've been found, at any rate, despite Jack and Hiro's efforts. Peter doesn't need the often-too-intimate telepathic link to know what Simon is thinking. He's already turning things over in his mind, trying out various approaches to toning down Mohinder's urgent zeal. 

They leave the building entirely, emerging from the corridor into a roasting, sunlit gravel lot outside the old warehouse. Nearby, Dylan is working in the welding tent, using two fingers of one hand and feeding wire with the other to meld two pieces of carefully-trimmed metal together. 

"I hate summer," Simon observes, apropos of nothing. "And I hate having to beat sense into people old enough to know better."

Peter can feel heavy weights on his mind. Money, of course, ever since Simon told Linderman to take his ten year plan and do anatomically impossible things with it. Social services has been sniffing around about the "homeschooling" Micah and the other kids are getting. Jessica's been seen in Georgia again, and Peter sleeps uneasily when he thinks about Jessica too much. He knows Nathan does too; he knows Nathan thinks about Jessica every time he sees the scars in the mirror. They've never managed to catch her. Peter worries about what will happen when they do, because he isn't sure he'd be able to turn her over to the police without maiming her first, even now.

He's tired, too. Claire's in her third year of med school and having trouble, so she calls him most nights to try and talk her way through it. Sometimes he thinks he and Jack are the only things anchoring her. Even Jack can't always help; he disappears for days at a time, Finding, and only answers Claire's calls. Simon swears every time that he's going to put a tracking collar on the kid. Peter knows it's his way of worrying, because Jack was his student too, and going alone is dangerous. Simon is good at the teaching part -- he's not quite so good at the "letting go" part.

Simon on his own requires a lot of management. If Peter let him, he'd sleep two hours a night and eat on alternate days and never, ever go to any of the meetings.

Peter knows, though, that this is what he was aching for when he spent all that time training to heal people. This is what he wanted when he leapt off that building and Nathan caught him. This is changing the world, not in big leaps, not in single steps, but at a steady run. 

"Well, no rest for the wicked," Simon says, and he turns to go.

"Stop," Peter answers, feeling deja-vu that is not quite deja-vu. Simon hesitates. "Close your eyes."

Simon knows better by now than to question Peter, not when his voice sounds like that. Peter closes his own eyes and lifts his face to the sky. Next to him, Simon is doing the same.

The two Empaths stand together in the warm summer sun, soaking up the heat. Dylan stops welding and glances at them, then closes his eyes as well. Micah brushes past, running out into the lot, laughing at something someone inside just said. There are voices inside, distant, raised in discussion. A lot of voices. The company gets bigger every day.

"I dreamed about this," Peter says. "I had a dream. I remember."

"So did I," Simon answers. 

"And?"

"I was frightened."

Peter opens his eyes and looks at Simon. "Why?"

Simon shrugs, watching Micah as the boy wanders over to inspect Dylan's work. Dylan is an Irishman, a gifted sculptor who was working in a car manufacturing plant until Hiro found him. Now he spends his days building beautiful things. He's utterly useless to Hirou International, but what does that matter? He makes people happy. Last week Nathan unveiled one of his sculptures as a gift to the city. Which is a political move, because next week Nathan's declaring his candidacy for president, but what does that matter either? He has Peter's vote. With Nathan in the White House, they could go public. They could show the world what they do, and maybe it won't be so afraid of the help they can offer.

"I didn't believe anything could be this good," Simon answers his half-forgotten question.

"You were a cynic."

" _Am_ a cynic. That's why I'm the boss and you're -- "

"Your watchdog." Peter interrupts before Simon can call him a pain in the arse again. "But it is good, isn't it?"

"SIMON!" Christophe calls from inside. Peter smiles; he never thought he'd hear the soft-spoken Haitian shout. Amy's been good for him. "PARKMAN IS ON THE PHONE!"

"IN A BLOODY MINUTE!" Simon calls back. He glances at Peter. 

"If you want a benediction, see a priest," he suggests. "I've got work to do."

He ruffles Peter's hair as he walks inside, and Peter lets him do it. Dylan returns to his work and Micah disappears around the corner, probably off to the workshop to tinker with his computers. 

"OI! PETRELLI! YOU'RE WANTED TOO!" Simon's voice drifts out through the doorway. 

"Yes, I am," Peter murmurs, and turns to go inside. 

THE BEGINNING.


	22. Throwing Bricks At One Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes were not part of original canon, but I wrote them because I know there's some Peter/Claude shippers out there and the temptation was too great to resist. These fall within the "Six Months Later" time period of the epilogue.

Petrelli family dinners had not exactly been a standard part of life for Peter, until Claire came along. Then it seemed like every week there was some excuse or other for everyone to come together, or he would drift home to say hi to Nathan and find Claire already there, and Mom, and why not stay for dinner? It just seemed to happen. It wasn't like anyone cooked, they had a family chef for that, but there was something about it that meant family, something that hadn't been in place since Dad died -- maybe since long before. They talked about things. How Claire was doing in her new school in New York, and the crazy people Nathan and Heidi had to put up with in politics, and what Peter got up to at the Warehouse.

Claude -- it was still weird to think of him as Simon -- started showing up to talk business with Mom, or tagging along with Peter because they weren't done with work for the day. That was even weirder. Cl -- Simon got into arguments with Nathan, odd civil arguments that had both men gesturing wildly over their steaks or appealing to Mom or Heidi or him for final judgement. Heidi liked Simon with the sort of perversity that had endeared her to Peter in the first place. 

So it was just there. It happened. And as often as not he and Simon would end up on the porch afterward, talking and finishing off a bottle of wine from dinner. Like ordinary human beings instead of two Empaths, one of whom had been dead for seven years and the other who set off a nuclear blast in the middle of New Mexico. 

When Claire and Jack came back from Oregon it was painfully obvious that they weren't just friends anymore, and about time too, in Peter's opinion. The thing was, it was obvious to Nathan and Mom as well, who wanted a word with them both, and Heidi had to take the kids upstairs and get them washed and into bed, which left Simon and Peter the odd ones out. 

Simon had been quiet over dinner anyway and now he sat on the railing of the porch, cradling a mostly-full glass of wine in his hands. Peter lounged against the wall, feeling warm and self-satisfied and not quite willing to restart their pre-dinner debate over international expansion. 

"Penny for your thoughts," he said to Simon, who glanced sidelong at him. 

"Work for them," he replied, and Peter tried to touch his mind, finding it open for once. Simon's barriers were always up, except for those rare times when they needed to speak silently. When they did, often Peter felt shoved back by the sheer strength of the pent-up emotion Simon kept tucked away. 

_You've been quiet,_ Peter said. _It's not like you._

 _You could just call me a noisy bastard and have done,_ Simon replied.

_That isn't what I meant. Are you worried about Jack and Claire?_

_I've enough to worry about without concernin' myself in the hormonal lives of two babes in arms,_ he said, but Peter caught some kind of trigger at Claire's name -- like a knot in smooth fabric, or a rough fingernail.

"Claire's upsetting you," he said aloud. Simon took a deep drink of wine. "And you never drink like that unless you're scared."

"I'm not scared, what are we, children?" Simon replied. In the half-light, the hollows of his cheeks fell in shadow, making him look sharp-edged and angular, and somewhat underfed. 

_Then what is it? Show me,_ Peter said. 

Simon shut his eyes and leaned his head back against a pillar. _What she said about us, this afternoon. Us fightin'. Is that what we're bound to do all our lives, pup? Throw bricks at one another?_

 _You're the one who said we could never be friends. I believe you cited Darwin,_ Peter replied. He could taste memories in both their thoughts -- the memory of Claire scolding them this afternoon in Simon's thoughts, the memory of that night they'd gone drinking, almost a year ago now, in Simon's. 

_Law of the jungle,_ Simon agreed. _Except we aren't animals. We're humans. And our stupid emotions get in the way._

Peter pushed away from the wall and came forward, leaning sideways against the pillar. This close, and with Simon uncharacteristically unguarded, he could almost touch the pensive, pessimistic fear Simon was feeling. 

_Do you like me at all?_ he asked Simon. 

_Stupid question._

_Because the answer should be obvious? It isn't. Sometimes I think you do. Sometimes I hear you with Jack or one of the others and I think you never like any of us, you just have to feel something for us because you're our teacher._

_It's been a long time since I've taught you anything you didn't know._

_So are you my teacher, Claude?_ The name slipped out before he meant it to.

"No," Simon replied. "And that's not my name anymore."

"I didn't mean to say it," Peter shrugged. "But you were Claude to me first. Now you're Simon, but you're still the one who carried me out of New Mexico. You're still the one who taught me what I needed to know to stay alive."

"Then that's all I need."

"Is it all you _want?_ To have been Peter's teacher?"

_I don't want to fight with you._

_Could have fooled me. You're always picking fights._ Peter turned to face him, taking the glass of wine out of his hands and setting it aside. _What do you want, Simon?_

Telepaths didn't often see images, but intense links made it possible, and Peter had long ago come to understand that he would never have a link as intense as the one he had with Simon. Not even with Nathan, his own brother, or a trained telepath like Matt.

An image flashed through his mind of his bare shoulder, in some fight they'd had back when he was still training, when his shirt had been torn. And another, of the raised ridge of scar along his jaw. And a third -- 

Peter rocked back, his mind reeling with the intensity of emotion associated with what he was seeing. It was strange and bare and purely erotic, a composite of images that had never happened, of Simon touching his face and kissing the place where shoulder met throat and pressing him down on the sheets of his own bed, bodies together, skin slick with sweat. 

He looked down at Simon, who was looking back at him with strangely empty eyes. He realised his own breathing was shallow, and he tried to contain it. 

"I am not your teacher," Simon said. "And we are not friends. And if fighting's the only way I -- "

Whatever he was going to say was swallowed when Peter swayed forward and kissed him. Clumsily, almost sideways, certainly not a halmark as first kisses went. But it made sparks dance across his brain, and it shut Simon up, which was a first.

He felt the light touch of Simon's fingers on his scar, tracing the shape of it, and then Simon broke the kiss. 

_How long have you known?_ Peter asked.

_Since your brother was shot. Hadn't anything left to teach you after that. I tried, I -- thought if I had a new student..._

_Jack._

_He's just a student. They're all just students. I don't know why you couldn't just be a student too._

Peter touched Simon's lip with his thumb, exploring the curve of it, sliding down over his chin and throat. Simon held fear-still, trembling, something Peter had never seen before. 

"From now on," Peter said, "I go where you go."

"Why?" Simon asked.

"Because I don't want to be left behind."

Simon's eyes darkened and the images flashed back again, but this time Peter caught and returned them in kind -- the time he'd seen Simon strip off a bloodstained shirt after a teaching session, the way his hands looked when he was writing or showing one of his other students how to turn thought into gesture and gesture into action. The way Peter's breath quickened when Simon touched him. 

Simon stood and ducked his head and let Peter kiss him again, hands cupping either side of his face, eyes closed. Peter had once tripped into a feedback loop with Matt, back when everything was only beginning, and Simon had warned him about them since. Thoughts could echo and mount until someone got hurt, telepathy playing into itself dangerously. A link could form that was pure, dangerous fire. Even so, he felt the single unnamed emotion leap from him to Simon and back again, cycling around both until Simon moaned into his mouth and bowed his head over Peter's shoulder, breathing hard. It wasn't sex, not exactly -- it was much more powerful than that. 

"Simon?" someone called, and Peter froze. Jack strolled out onto the porch, radiating amiable curiosity. "Peter? You out here?"

Peter realised they were invisible. And also floating six inches off the ground. Simon pressed his mouth against Peter's neck to muffle his breathing. 

"I swore they were out here," he said, turning to Claire, standing in the doorway. "They must have just gone. Maybe they went around to the side door."

 _He's a Sector and we're standing right in front of him,_ Peter said. _You're a lousy teacher, Simon._

 _Shut it, or I swear I'll throw you off a building,_ Simon replied. His mouth traveled up Peter's throat, and Peter bit his lip to stifle a sharp intake of breath. 

"Probably off shouting at each other," Claire said. "Come on, you can find them later."

Jack, perplexed, swept the porch one last time, then shrugged and disappeared back into the house. Peter felt his feet touch ground again. Simon let him go, stepping back cautiously.

"I'd better go say bye..." Peter gestured inside. 

"Course. And I have..." Simon tilted his head at the driveway. 

"Work," Peter supplied helpfully.

"Yes."

"Those new lab reports Mohinder sent up."

"Yes, which I -- "

" -- need my thoughts on."

"Need, I wouldn't say _need_..."

"...but want, definitely."

Simon looked at him without a hint of cynicism or cruelty in his eyes, which was almost a first.

"Definitely," he said.

***

Peter woke slowly, in his own bed, not accustomed anymore to finding someone else in it. There'd been no time, and there were precious few who understood well enough; the last person who woke here was Simone Deveaux. 

Simon was awake, he could sense that; not watching or thinking much, just lying with his body against Peter's, drowsing, arm flung over Peter's hip. At the tentative touch on his mind, his eyes opened and he smiled. Most of Simon's smiles were hard, cynical things -- teacherly pleasure was the most he ever expressed -- but this one was real and open, and it reached all the way to his eyes. 

"G'morning," Peter mumbled, burrowing closer. 

"Morning, pup. All right, then?" Simon asked, and Peter could feel his uncertainty.

"Better than all right," Peter replied. "Do we have to be anywhere today?"

"No. Bennet'll see to the office. I'll call in later." He bent his head slightly and kissed Peter's forehead, a gesture that could be taken as parental if they weren't naked together in bed. Peter was amazed they'd even taken the time to get all their clothes off -- especially the way Simon had teleported them straight to Peter's apartment and shoved him against the wall before Peter even had time to catch his breath.

He didn't particularly want to catch his breath. 

As they kissed, the previous day rolled out in his mind -- Simon's anxiety, leaping from him to Peter, and an open bond that showed Peter precisely why. And the link deepening, spiralling around them until they'd managed to get alone and it seemed to Peter that the world shook.

There was still a hint of -- not anxiousness, more like concern, in Simon's mind. Peter inched delicately around it, studying it, and then he laughed. 

"Seriously?" he said.

"Seriously what?" Simon asked.

"You thought I wouldn't be...satisfied? Happy?" Peter asked. 

"Well, I...don't think that now, particularly," Simon replied, but he was fishing. 

"You haven't done this in a while," Peter said, his face pressed against Simon's shoulder.

"I wasn't _that_ bad," Simon retorted, snorting.

"No, that wasn't what I meant. This. Being with someone. It's been a long time for you. You were alone for years. Maybe longer. Last night you -- well, your walls were down."

Simon nodded, acknowledging the walls which Peter knew would always be there in some respect. That was all right. Simon had his barriers and Peter had his.

"When?" Peter asked. "How long has it been?"

"You don't want to hear about old loves."

"But I want to know. You have these holes in your life, things I don't know about. You can tell me those."

Simon snorted again. "You're a lousy therapist, pup."

Peter smiled into his skin. "I just want to know."

Simon's hand curled against his head, fingers separating out locks of short hair. 

"Timothy," he said. "He was called Timothy. Might not've been his real name. Back when I was Claude."

"Who was he?" Peter asked, and felt Simon's pleasure that he hadn't asked _what_ was he. 

"My student."

"You make a habit of seducing your students, then?" Peter inquired. 

"Not generally, no." Simon pressed his nose against Peter's forehead, inhaling. "I've mentioned him. The man with the perfect memory."

"The one who died."

"Yes."

Peter slid a hand up Simon's arm. "You don't have to -- "

"He was a university student. Not much younger'n me. Twenty-four, twenty-five, I must've been twenty-nine or so. I was twenty-one when they bagged me, this was later." Simon actually smiled. "He was doing some upper degree. History. He had a good head for dates, even before."

"What happened?"

A half-shrug against Peter's body. "I was teachin' him, learnin' how to do what he did. How does it ever happen. He was brilliant, he was."

Peter frowned. 

"Sod it, I told you that you didn't want to hear this."

"No, I do. Am...I brilliant?"

"Do we want pettin', Petrelli?" Simon asked, tightening his arm around Peter's waist. "Different sorts. You shine brighter."

"That's okay, then," Peter said, nuzzling his shoulder. 

"So glad to hear it."

"What happened to Timothy?"

"He saw somethin' he shouldn't've. Can't forget what you've seen if your memory's perfect. He wanted to leave, which isn't an option in a life like that. They..."

Simon was silent for a long time.

"They were goin' to take him apart, a piece at a time. Alive. He wasn't any more use to them. He was just a thing. They'd have tortured him. When I got to him they'd already driven him mad. So I killed him."

Peter stiffened. 

"It was that or watch him die the kind of death no man wants," Simon continued. "I didn't hurt him. I'd've done the same for you."

Peter thought about the time Claude threw him off the roof. If it hadn't worked, he'd have defused the biggest bomb in history. Wasn't that what he'd said?

"Bennet knew, but he let it go the one time. I killed someone I loved. After that, things changed. I wouldn't let them use my students anymore. So Bennet killed me. And that's the end of storytime."

Peter tilted his head up and kissed Simon, relaxing against his body again. 

"So your memory is perfect," he said.

"My memories are what they are. I remember Timothy. Every detail."

"Will you remember me?"

Simon slid his hand around, pressing it against Peter's chest. "Got no need. You'll be here."

"We can't know that."

He met Simon's eyes, uncharacteristically dark and open.

"I will remember you, Peter. You'll remember me. Timothy's dead an' I'm not Claude anymore. This is what matters."

Peter kissed him again, first his mouth and then his jaw with its raspy night's-growth of beard. He nipped at his throat and kissed his shoulder, fingers working down Simon's ribcage slowly. 

"Pup," Simon said, and Peter stopped, nuzzling the point just below Simon's first bullet-wound scar. He breathed against his skin, waiting. "This, today and here. The only time we ever talk about him. Understood?"

"Understood," Peter said, working his way down to Simon's hip. He shoved gently and Simon moved, sliding onto his back, fingers threading through Peter's hair. 

He rested his head on Simon's hip. The other man's erection, not quite full yet, lay tauntingly against his thigh, but Peter realised he'd never...done this yet. There had been a guy or two, when he was a teeanger, but they'd never quite got this far. He didn't want to screw it up.

Simon laughed. _Got a few things to teach you yet, eh? Come here._

Peter looked up at him. Simon beckoned with his head, and he slid back up his body, kissing him.

 _We do have time,_ Simon said, echoing back the one time Peter had ever made Simon lose his composure. If you didn't count last night, anyway. 

Peter shut his eyes and made the world stop.

"Yes we do," he said against Simon's mouth.

_That's a pretty trick. I'll have that off you one day._

_You can't do it now?_

_Not yet._ Simon's hands slid up Peter's back delightfully. Peter arched his hips and Simon moaned. 

"Right now," he said, interrupted by a sharp intake of breath as Peter kissed his jaw, "I think I'll just enjoy the moment. Peter."

Peter opened his mind and touched Simon's, feeling the walls crack and crumble again. 

"Time," Peter said. "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Sylar and Isaac are the major character deaths.


End file.
